


Overkill

by Colorado



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Injury, Love, Murder, Relationship(s), Serial Killers, Suspense, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 14:20:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 28,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1174096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colorado/pseuds/Colorado
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A serial killer is prowling London, his victims seemingly random. The murders are bizarre, gruesome even, but the killer always leaves a calling card: a black bow tied on the left wrist. As Sherlock and John investigate, Molly tries to help. But when her efforts attract the killer's attention, someone unexpected may be the next victim. A Sherlolly mystery. Not related to S3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_She’s a screamer all right—and not in a good way._

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade reluctantly looked from the cracked screen of his mobile to the screaming woman across the street. As she knelt in front of the River Mills apartment building, the woman’s traditional _hijab_ spilled over the sidewalk like a pool of oil. In the coming nightfall, her huddled form blended in with the growing shadows even as she keened like a banshee. Rocking back and forth, oblivious to the well-meaning crowd of family and friends who surrounded her, Merna Yasrey pressed the palms of her hands against the sides of her head as if she could squeeze from her mind what was happening before her eyes.

 _Can’t really blame her_ , Lestrade mused. _I might do the same if I just learned my daughter had been murdered_. 

This wasn’t the first time grieving family members had unexpectedly shown up at a murder scene. He’d probably have it happen again soon the rate his caseload was growing. But the more he tried to block out the woman’s sobbing, the more the plaintive sound cut the cool evening air. Lestrade finished sending his text before gesturing Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan to his side. 

“Tell me again how the mother found out?”

Donovan’s dark hair waved down her back as she shook her head in disgust. “The man who discovered the body knew the girl’s family. He called them right after he called us. I would like to give him bloody hell.” 

Lestrade sighed. “Nothing we can do about that now. What else do we know besides her name and age?” 

“Didn’t get a lot from mum, not in the shape she’s in, but her uncle had a lot to say.” Donovan scanned her notes. “Sixth form. No boyfriend. Three younger brothers. Mum works in an accounting office, dad died last year of a heart attack. Family emigrated from Egypt ten years ago.”

She snapped her notebook shut. “According to the uncle, Akila was a good girl. Never had a spot of trouble with her.”

“Did Anderson find her mobile?”

“No, just her school ID. Her uncle said she had one, though.”

Lestrade rubbed his chin, aware that this much five o’clock stubble made him appear more haggard than attractive. And he felt every inch of exhausted. “Check her school to see if she was seen leaving with anyone. And get the CCTV.”

It was worth a try. Maybe he would get lucky. Maybe someone saw the girl walk off with the person who ended her life so brutally and could identify him straightaway.

_Yeah, right._

Narrowing his eyes, he watched Anderson and the SOCO team swarm the parking lot and rusted rubbish skip where the body had been found like ants on spilled sugar. Lestrade knew his men were good, but they weren’t the very best.

And he needed the very best working this case.

Donovan loudly cleared her throat. “You’ve sent for The Freak, haven’t you?”

She routinely questioned his judgment regarding Sherlock Holmes’ involvement in official police inquiries, and he usually ignored her. But this time was altogether different. The stakes were too high.

Lestrade stood nose to nose with the junior officer. “That’s not your call to make, is it? We didn’t get anything from the other scenes—I need physical evidence from this one. If that means bringing him in, so be it.”

Donovan refused to lower her eyes, and Lestrade wasn’t through yet.

“You saw that black ribbon tied her wrist, just like it was on the others. We’ve got a serial killer, now don’t we? And from the looks of it, he’s going to be off-the-charts bloody insane. Do you want to be the one to tell the mums of future victims we could’ve prevented their murders if we’d only consulted Sherlock Holmes? Because there will be more victims.”

“Yes, sir,” Donovan grumbled.

Lestrade broke his glare when Mrs. Yasrey’s wailing rose in volume. “And for God’s sake, can someone go see to that poor woman?”

“Yes, sir.” Donovan waved the officers on crowd control in the mother’s direction, but the sobs didn’t stop.

Lestrade grimaced. He knew she wasn’t done screaming yet.

~s~s~s~s~s~

“A serial killer’s obviously at work, and you just now are bringing me in?”

Sherlock Holmes let the question hang in the air as he brushed past the detective inspector and strode toward the crime scene.

“You couldn’t have prevented this murder.” John Watson walked at Sherlock’s side. “Greg said the victims have nothing connecting them.”

“That he knows of,” Sherlock muttered none too quietly.

“Shut up, Sherlock,” Lestrade said.

Sherlock observed John sneak a glance at Lestrade’s ashen features as the trio strode toward the cordoned-off area. _He probably thinks Lestrade’s ill, but he only has worked himself into an emotional state of agitation_. _He normally remains detached at crime scenes. There must be something particular disturbing him about this case._

John was like a dog with a bone. “You can’t think you could’ve saved this girl.”

“I don’t think that at all,” Sherlock said. “All I meant was if Lestrade had told me about the other killings when they happened, I wouldn’t have been so bored this week.”

He recognized the silence that followed. It meant he had said something “not good,” something that would have made Molly tug on his sleeve and John pinch the bridge of his nose, much like he was doing now.

Lestrade stopped midstride. “Do me a favor, yeah? Don’t tell the grieving mom that her daughter’s murder is a source of entertainment for you, yeah?”

It was nearly pitch dark when they reached the body.

“Not so fast, Freak.” Donovan handed him a pair of booties to slip over his well-polished leather shoes.

“I never wear—”

“You do today,” Lestrade growled dangerously.

Lights brought in to illuminate the area switched on as Sherlock and John bent over the girl’s lifeless body. Sherlock noted that her school uniform was soiled with blood, but the ground beneath her body wasn’t. John focused on the black ribbon tied in an elaborate bow on her left wrist and the large “X” carved into the back of her hand.

“These cuts on her neck are jagged, uneven, on both sides of her neck and the front and the back.” Sherlock quickly took out his magnifying glass. “There’s glass imbedded in them. Tiny fragments but still there.”

“This wasn’t an ordinary knife,” Anderson commented as he approached. “Certainly not the same one the cut the ‘X’ on her hand.”

“It wasn’t a knife at all,” Sherlock replied.

“What type of weapon would do this?” John tried to remain professional as he turned his attention to the wounds, but his horror was on full display. “She’s practically decapitated.”

“What have you found, Anderson?” Sherlock said with no hint of sarcasm.

“Cause of death . . . well, she bled out, didn’t she? No apparent sexual assault, but we’ll have to wait for the autopsy to be sure. We’ll go over her book bag and clothes for trace evidence. There’s some glass on the ground but no other evidence. As for the skip, it’s half full, mainly with the contents of someone’s flat.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “What exactly?”

“An old mattress, a chair, a large picture frame, an area rug.”

“Let me see the frame.”

One of Anderson’s colleagues retrieved a large, rectangular frame, ornate in design and nearly two feet long.

Sherlock looked it over once. “It’s not a frame. See the pieces of glass remaining in the corners here and here? They are coated with a reflective substance, most likely nontoxic silver or aluminum. This was a mirror. This is the murder weapon.”

John gaped at him. “How?”

“The killer smashed it over her head, shattering the glass, then moved it back and forth like so.” Sherlock slipped the empty frame over John’s head and moved it side to side to demonstrate. “It explains how shards of glass ripped open her neck on all sides. No doubt the slivers of glass in her cuts will have traces of the same reflective coating.”

“Bag the frame,” Lestrade barked at Anderson. “Search the skip again.”

“Wouldn’t someone have heard her scream if she was killed here?” John asked.

“Where’s the blood? Where’s all the glass from the mirror?” Sherlock replied. “She wasn’t killed here.”

“I know she wasn’t killed here. This is where she was dumped.” Lestrade flushed red to the roots of his salt-and-pepper hair.

“Of course you know that.” John eyed the DI carefully.

“Donovan is rounding up surveillance footage,” Lestrade said roughly. “Hopefully we’ll have an image of the bastard that brought Akila here.”

John watched as the body bag was zipped closed. “Smashing a mirror over her head? It’s so savage. Why carve an X on her hand and tie a black ribbon around her wrist? That’s . . . that’s . . .”

“Crazy,” Anderson finished for him.

“The black ribbon and the X are the killer’s signature,” Lestrade said. “We found them on Pete Marchand, the first victim, and on Theresa McKeon.”

Sherlock thoughtfully tapped his pointer fingers to his chin. “How were they murdered?”

Lestrade turned toward the street. “Let’s go to my office.”

~s~s~s~s~s~

If John had thought the murderer was crazy before, the crime scene photos of the other victims confirmed it. Sherlock paced behind where John stood in front of Lestrade’s desk, staring at the digital photos in front of him.

“I . . . don’t understand this,” John murmured.

Pete Marchand, thirty years old and as burly as a rugby player, wore unflattering khaki walking shorts that were a size too small and an argyle sweater vest in pastels over a white polo shirt. On his left wrist was a black bow and the distinctive X was carved into the back of his hand. A heavy rope was wound tightly around his bare feet and ankles.

“Cause of death?” Sherlock asked not breaking stride.

“He was strangled with that same rope. Toxicology shows he was sedated. Someone of his size would have put up a good fight otherwise.” Lestrade leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

“Where was he found?”

“Outside of a playground very early Monday morning. Luckily the park was empty and no kids were around.”

The consulting detective paused. “Why would that have mattered?”

Lestrade didn’t even acknowledge the question. “He was a bartender. Single, no kids. A cousin made the identification. From all accounts, he was a very friendly bloke.”

Sherlock resumed pacing. “His clothes are all wrong. Wrong for the time of year, wrong for a grown man of his size and occupation.”

John nodded rapidly. “Yes, I see what you mean.”

“We showed the clothes to his cousin. He said there was no way Pete would ever wear something like that,” Lestrade said.

“So . . . the killer’s dressing them up?” The doctor pushed the photos away in disgust.

“When I got the case, I thought it could be some kind of fetish thing, you know? Role-playing and the like gone wrong. But then we found Theresa.” Sliding a manila file across his desk toward Sherlock, Lestrade stood and gazed out of his office into the bullpen. “Theresa McKeon. She was twenty-four, a drug addict and prostitute. She was found on the bank of the Thames on Wednesday afternoon.”

“Good God.” John thumbed through the photos as Sherlock handed them to him.

Theresa wore a modest white nightgown that matched the color of her unearthly pale skin. Her strawberry blonde hair had been cut off unevenly in chunks. Again, the black bow and X adorned her left hand.

“Is the white substance on her skin paint then?” Sherlock asked.

Lestrade didn’t turn around. “She was covered in it. And before you ask, the cause of death was a stab wound to the heart. Like Akila, she wasn’t killed where she was found, but SOCO located a book in the vicinity of the body. It was _Tess of the d'Urbervilles_.”

“This just gets stranger,” John said.

Sherlock stared intently at the ceiling. “The killer lures them somewhere he can kill them and change their clothes without risking being discovered. It was somewhere a grown man, a prostitute, and a schoolgirl would have felt safe going to. Three seemingly unrelated victims, three different causes of death, three dump sites. And no apparent motive.”

“He’s a bloody psychopath,” John exclaimed. “He doesn’t need a motive.”

Lestrade shook his head and walked back to his desk. “We thought there was a connection between Pete and Theresa because she may have gone into his pub, but now with Akila . . . we’re back to square one.”

John scratched his head. “Why haven’t I read about any of this is the paper?”

“We’ve kept the details out of the press, and they don’t seem too interested in the murder of a hooker or a bartender. But the murder of a schoolgirl? They will be all over it.” Lestrade turned to lock eyes with the consulting detective. “Today is Friday. If the pattern holds, we’ll have another victim on Sunday. We have to hurry. The murders are random, and we have no idea who he will target next.”

Sherlock pressed his lips into a thin smile. “I do love a good mystery.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A note: My Mary is not based on BBC Sherlock's Mary.

~s~s~s~s~s~

“Dr. Hooper, I am annoyed with you.”

To the casual observer, Sherlock Holmes appeared a little unhinged.

Why else would he dramatically thrust open the double doors to the pristine lab at St. Bart’s mortuary, the collar to his dark Belstaff coat turned up to a nonexistent wind, and announce his feelings to an empty room? Even John Watson, who followed a step behind carrying two cups of coffee, muttered, “Really, Sherlock?” But the detective knew Molly Hooper’s propensity to comply with his requests—and he also knew his voice carried. He was rewarded a few seconds later by a clattering metallic noise from the adjoining room and his pathologist storming in the other door.

Having clearly just finished Akila Yasrey’s autopsy, Molly still wore universal precautions—rubber gloves, cap and gown, a plastic apron, and shoe covers. While her body was hidden from him, Sherlock could still appreciate her form.

“I come into work at first light on my day off because you insist I am the only one who can do this autopsy—”

“Dr. Prichard is incompetent.” He sniffed.

“—and you’re annoyed with _me_?” Molly held his stare from behind her protective face shield.

“Two victims of an apparent serial killer came through your morgue this week, and _you_ didn’t tell me,” Sherlock countered. “I have every right to be annoyed.”

Molly removed her rubber gloves with a loud snap. “Do you mean the Black Bow Murders?”

“Um, the Black Bow Murders?”

John set one of the to-go cups on the counter and gestured for Molly to take it.

“That’s what everyone around here is calling them,” she said, continuing to take off and properly dispose of her protective gear. “Dr. Prichard did the first victim’s autopsy, and apparently he told quite a few people the gruesome details, but I didn’t even know there was a first victim until after I did Theresa McKeon’s autopsy. That’s when Greg told me it was probably a serial killer.”

“You could have mentioned it to me.” Sherlock sulked, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Sent a text. Told me at dinner. Pillow talk.”

Her lips curved into a smile. “Pillow talk? About a serial killer?”

He was struck anew by how attractive Molly was. She possessed a rare natural beauty that was simple and understated. She didn’t need make up at all, but when she did wear it, she became unforgettable. He gazed into the brown eyes that could see to the very core of him.

“It wouldn’t be the first time the subject has come up in that setting.” He brushed a wisp of chestnut-brown hair that had escaped from the bun on top of her head out of her face.

A charming flush rose in Molly’s cheeks as she looked meaningfully toward John, who was doing his best to read his texts and ignore the couple.

“Thank you for the coffee, John. I can always count on you to be considerate.” She took a long drink, then gave Sherlock a small grin.

Assured that she was no longer upset with him, he continued. “You’ve finished the autopsy.”

“I put the time of death only an hour before she was found. Her last meal was a tuna sandwich and a beer.”

“Are you sure? From what Greg told us, Akila’s family claimed she was a ‘good girl.’” John ran his hand across his brow. “Was she assaulted?”

“She wasn’t raped, but I did find an area of hyperpigmentation on her left shoulder and below her right ear.”

“Love bites? But she didn’t have a boyfriend,” John said.

“Teenagers lie all the time,” Sherlock stated. “The police assumed she was taken as she left school. It appears she was somewhere else, with someone else.”

“She’s the third victim.” Molly winced at the thought. “Poor little girl.”

“I didn’t get to see the first two bodies _in situ_ or examine those dump sites before Lestrade’s people marched over them, so I am hoping you will discover a commonality between all three victims’ autopsies.”

Molly let out a slow breath. “All right, but I can tell you now that the causes of death are completely different.”

“Did you find traces of a sedative in Theresa McKeon?” Sherlock asked.

Molly walked briskly to her desk and brought the test results up on her laptop. “Yes. Didn’t Greg tell you? I sent my report to him.”

“He didn’t mention it,” John mused.

“I’ll try to narrow down the specific sedative, but it may take a little while.”

“Check this girl, too, for the sedative,” Sherlock directed and before Molly could correct him, he added, “please.”

“There’s still a chance we can prevent the fourth murder,” John began hopefully, but Sherlock cut him off.

“No, John. We don’t have enough data to calculate the killer’s motive or pattern. Undoubtedly there will be a fourth.”

“You know,” Molly said as she strolled over to Sherlock, “you could have texted about the sedative and the autopsies. You didn’t have to come all the way over here.”

Sherlock realized she was correct. “Hmmm.”

“But then I wouldn’t have been able to do this.” She gave him a quick kiss. “Where are you off to?”

“John and I are going to talk to the families of the first two victims.”

“Be careful,” she said solemnly. “Both of you.”

~s~s~s~s~s~

The taxi’s windshield wipers had a hard time keeping up with the pelting rain as the dark car inched along in mounting London traffic. John scrolled through his texts, pausing to read one sent by Mary. When he first met her, she went by Sarah, a name Sherlock continuously butchered on the occasions he attempted to remember her name. He called her Susan, Sheryl, Sandy, and one random time, Olivia. But when he learned her full name—Sarah Louise Mary Morstan—Sherlock had latched on to calling her Mary, and it had stuck. Mary later confided in John that her parents had always called her Mary when she was growing up. She had only switched to Sarah when she entered university.

“Leave it to Sherlock to decide what my name will be.” She had laughed warmly.

“I don’t care what your name is as long as one day it will be Mrs. Watson,” he had replied.

Grinning at the memory, John opened the next message. “Pete Marchand’s cousin is meeting us at his flat to let us in. What are you hoping to find there?”

The look of intense concentration in Sherlock’s eyes melted as he came back from wherever he had been focusing. “When are you going to propose?”

John had gotten used to his friend’s non-sequiturs over the years, but this time he was completely surprised.

“What?”

“When are you planning on asking Mary to marry you?”

“How did you know? I haven’t mentioned it. I only made the last payment on the ring on Monday . . . that’s it, isn’t it?” John’s voice rose in volume. “You’ve been going into my bank records online again, haven’t you?”

“I like Mary.” Sherlock straightened his blue muffler. “I approve of your engagement.”

“Well, thank you very much,” John huffed. “I always want to base my marriage proposals on your good opinion.”

~s~s~s~s~s~

Andy James was a short, fire hydrant of a man whose trapezoid muscles were so thick from years of lifting weights, it looked to John as if the twentysomething had no neck at all. The younger man stood with his barrel chest puffed out to make himself look bigger and constantly ran his hand over his shock of red hair. He eyed the detective as Sherlock examined Pete’s DVD collection.

“What is he looking for?” he asked John.

“Not sure yet.”

Pete Marchand’s flat was decked out with every imaginable entertainment electronic. A large flat-screen television dominated the main wall while on the bookshelf next to it was a tablet and a laptop computer. John scanned the framed Olympic posters decorating the walls, but it was hard to see in the darkened room. Lined curtains covered every window.

“I don’t understand what a private detective has to do with this,” Andy grumbled loudly. “The police have been through here.”

“I am not the police,” Sherlock said disdainfully. “They wouldn’t search a murder victim’s flat beyond what was staring them in the face.”

He pulled a few movie cases from the bookshelf and shook them. “Why does he have children’s DVDs?”

Andy thought hard. “They may be Marsha’s. She’s a woman he dated a few months ago. She had a couple of kids.”

Sherlock picked one still in its plastic wrapping off the marble coffee table. “ _Peter Pan_?”

“Pete’s nickname,” Andy said with a sad smile. “We used to ask him where his green tights were. Someone probably got him that as a joke.”

“Tell me about Pete,” Sherlock said, looking over the TV’s connections to the surround sound speakers and two different gaming systems.

Andy’s face grew animated. “Super friendly bloke. The type of guy that you could call in the middle of the night and say you needed to borrow money and he’d be there for you. He had tons of friends.”

“Did he like to have his friends over?” Sherlock asked, still focusing on the electronics.

“He had people over all the time. He threw great parties.”

Sherlock crossed the room and studied the keypad to the alarm system Andy had turned off when they arrived.

“Why all the security? Triple locks on the door, the motion sensors?”

“Not the best neighborhood, I guess.” Andy shrugged. “I only had his extra key and the system code in case of emergency. Or if Pete was away and needed someone to take care of the fish.”

“Ah yes the fish.” Sherlock strode to the large aquarium that rested against the wall leading to the kitchen. In the darkened room, its lighting glowed eerily. “One would have to wonder why he would need such a large aquarium for only two, no, three little fish.”

John watched as the rainbow-colored fish darted around the two large, decorative sunken ships. Sherlock removed the top of the aquarium, rolled up his sleeve, and plunged his arm into the water, bringing up one ship at a time.

“Necessity is indeed the mother of invention. Dealers can get very creative in where they hide their drugs.”

“What are you on about?” Andy exclaimed angrily.

Sherlock shook the water from his hand, then opened the fake bottom of both ships. Out of each fell a clear, waterproof bag filled with tiny plastic bags containing white powder. Before his companions could say anything, Sherlock went back to the DVDs.

“With his up-to-the-minute electronics, he certainly had the ability to stream movies. Why would he still have all of these DVDs?” Sherlock cracked open a few cases and dumped out more little bags of white powder.

“How did you know?” John asked.

“People coming and going, tight security, windows blocked with heavy curtains so neighbors can’t see in, expensive items that he couldn’t possibly afford on a bartender’s salary,” Sherlock rattled off. “Drug dealer. Obviously.”

Andy sank into one of the plush leather chairs facing the television, a thin line of perspiration crossing his forehead. “I didn’t know he was dealing, I swear!” 

“You obviously attended his parties, so you did in fact know he dealt drugs, but I don’t care about that. When did you see him last?” Sherlock asked.

Andy sighed. “The day before his body was found. I stopped by the pub early to see if he wanted to go to the gym with me after he got off work, but he said he had errands to run. I told him to text me if he changed his mind.”

“Were these ‘errands’ to deliver drugs?” John asked.

“I don’t know, really. They may have been.”

“The police haven’t found his car,” Sherlock stated.

Andy shook his head. “They haven’t found it or his mobile either. His whole life was on that mobile.”

“Akila’s mobile was missing, too,” John observed.

Andy’s shoulders slumped.  “He may have sold drugs, but he was a good guy. Who would have wanted to kill him and . . . and humiliate him by putting him in that stupid outfit? Mr. Holmes, I’ll help you however I can. Just find this bastard.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

The steady rain became a curtain of gray mist as Sherlock and John parted ways with Andy outside Pete Marchand’s flat. John eyed the dark clouds brooding heavily in the distance, wishing he had worn a heavier jacket; it would certainly rain later. 

Impatiently signaling for a cab, Sherlock’s breath came out in staccato clouds as he muttered, “Pete’s mobile wasn’t found.”

John blew on his cupped hands to warm them. “I’ve heard psychopaths sometimes keep something that belongs to their victims. Akilah’s was missing, too. Maybe the killer wanted their mobiles as souvenirs.”

“You've been watching too many detective shows on the telly.” Sherlock snorted derisively as he finally flagged down a cab.

“Where are we going?” John slammed his door shut.

“Finchingfield in East Essex County, Theresa McKeon’s last known permanent address,” Sherlock replied. 

The cab made good time and they soon pulled up in front of a picturesque house situated behind several large yew trees. 

“Nice home, that,” John murmured thoughtfully.

Roused from deep thought, Sherlock looked at the house with disdain. “You’re wondering how a heroin-addicted prostitute came from such an fine, upstanding neighborhood? I wonder why more addicts don’t come from such families.” 

“Always pleasant, aren’t you?” John paid the cabbie, and the pair walked up the brick walkway. 

Sherlock stopped abruptly. “Around back.”

Leading the way, the detective strode across the boggy grass, heavy with the latest rain. As they turned the corner, John detected the acrid odor of tobacco that surely had attracted Sherlock’s keen senses. The smell drifted on a light breeze up the long, flowing lawn. They followed it to one of the sweetest gardens John had ever seen. Veils of roses elegantly draped over a white arbor while red and blue hydrangeas bordered a brick patio. Someone had treasured this garden, John could tell, but nature was coming into its own on its borders. Rambling vines sent shoots out into the grass, and stray branches shot upward from the hedges, rising above the height of its fellows. 

In the far corner of the lawn, an older man wearing a striped jumper paced slowly, taking a long drag on his cigarette every few steps. He was stocky and plain with a white fringe of sparse hair. A pair of horn-rimmed glasses interrupted his round, ruddy face. 

“Who are you?” he asked, toeing out his cigarette on the grass.

“I’m Sherlock Holmes and this is my associate, Dr. John Watson,” Sherlock said as they approached. “We’re working in consultation with Scotland Yard on your daughter’s murder. I have questions for you and your wife.”

The man regarded them blankly. “I know who you are, Mr. Holmes. I suppose you had best come in the house.”

He led them up a small ramp to the back door, which opened into a bright yellow kitchen outfitted with stainless-steel appliances. The cheerful wallpaper border, decorated with chickens, wrapped the room at the height of the chair rail; a few ceramic roosters held court on top of the oak cabinets. 

“Would you care for some tea?” the man asked out of social convention.

“Yes, thank you.” 

Surprised at Sherlock’s quick acceptance, John snuck a glance at his friend but Sherlock focused only on the man who had hesitated for a moment before switching on the stove. 

“Your garden is very lovely,” John said politely.

The man slowly nodded. “My wife is the most talented of women.”

Leaning against the counter, he stood silently, his heavy breathing echoing in the silence. John thought he might have forgotten about them until the bright brass kettle blew a high, thin whistle.

“If the police called in you, they must have no idea who did it.”

“We are all working very hard on the case.” John tried to sound positive.

“Is that so?” The man’s eyebrows raised a degree but no emotion reached his eyes.

“I would like to speak to you and your wife about your daughter’s death.” Sherlock watched their host carefully.

“I have no faith in the police, Mr. Holmes. Do you want to know why?” The older man’s expression remained stony. “They are so dimwitted they can’t even get the basic facts correct. Theresa wasn’t my daughter; she was my stepdaughter. Her dad died when she was a toddler. My name is Dave Wilson.”

John sensed Sherlock stiffen in anger; he was sure Lestrade would be on the receiving end of Sherlock’s harsh comments regarding this omission later. 

Dave gestured for them to take a seat at the small table near the bay window that looked over the roses. “Theresa was twelve when I met Leslie. I may not seem to be the type of man to fall in love at first sight, but I did. It didn’t matter to me if Leslie already had a daughter. I was honored to be Theresa’s stepfather.

“Leslie and I married a year later, and the three of us were happy. For a time. We had great plans, Leslie and me. We were going to travel the continent after Theresa graduated. It would be our ‘grand tour of Europe.’ We had even picked out a villa in Tuscany. But that didn’t happen, did it? Theresa never graduated. Europe was forgotten. Everything revolved around Theresa, getting her into rehab, finding her after she ran away from rehab, and so on.” 

John made a sympathetic noise. “Why did she . . .?”

“Become a prostitute? To support her drug habit.” Dave stirred his tea absently. “It started with marijuana. I caught her several times. Then she started drinking, skipping school. She saw how she was breaking her mother’s heart, but Theresa didn’t stop. She got mixed up with the wrong crowd, as they say. She ran away. By the time she turned 18, she was a full-blown addict.”

“When did you see Theresa last?” Sherlock asked.

“Several months ago. I tried to convince her to come see her mum, but she refused.”

“Is your wife available? I’d like to speak to her,” Sherlock said.

“No.” Dave’s firm tone had a bite.

“She’s ill, I know, but it is vitally important to my investigation,” Sherlock said.

Dave’s head jerked up. “How did you know Leslie is sick?”

John sighed in resignation to what would be another one of Sherlock’s rapid-fire explanations.

“A kitchen made for someone who loves to cook, but there’s a thin coating of dust on the counter and your bin in the corner is filled with takeout containers. No one has cooked in here in a long time. Every detail of the garden was planned with care, but it is now neglected. You aren’t the gardener; if you were, you wouldn’t put out your cigarettes in the lawn. The ramp leading to the garden was built in the last year, meaning someone who enjoys the patio has to be taken out in a wheelchair. You aren’t the gardener; otherwise you would never have extinguished your cigarette in the grass and leave the butt out there. However, your nicotine-stained fingers show you are a long-time smoker. Why are you now smoking in the garden? Because there is oxygen in use in the home.” 

Dave stood and poured his tea down the drain. “You are correct, Mr. Holmes. But I still can’t allow you to speak to Leslie.”

“Why?” Sherlock demanded.

Slowly, Dave faced him. “She doesn’t know Theresa is dead.”

“She doesn't know?” John faltered. “You haven’t told her?”

Dave’s eyes grew flinty. “No, and I don’t plan to.”

“Why the hell not?” John’s voice rose. “That is her daughter!”

“You want to know why? I’ll show you.”

The entryway was filled with stacks of books and newspapers, boxes and odd pieces of furniture. They followed Dave to a small library to the right of the stairs that had been emptied to accommodate a hospital bed.

Multiple prescription bottles covered a desk that had been shoved under a window. Near the doorway where they stood was a wheel chair. Oxygen flowed through tubes to a thin figure that lay unmoving under a blanket. John took in the sight with a heavy heart.

“No, gentlemen, I won’t wake Leslie to tell her about Theresa,” Dave whispered. “The cancer has metastasized. The doctor has given her a week.”

The three men returned to the entryway where John uncomfortably tried to find some words of comfort for the heartbroken man. He didn’t get the chance.

“So Theresa never came to see her mother in these last few weeks?” Sherlock asked unemotionally, examining a few items on the hall table.

“I know Leslie saw her before her health declined so rapidly. She gave her money. She was always giving her money.”

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Wilson?” Sherlock asked.

“I was a teacher, but I retired years ago. Ever since she was diagnosed, I have been Leslie’s full-time caregiver.”

Sherlock eyed a stack of books. “Art appreciation for the beginner, the history of the Crimean War, how to make homemade beer? That is quite an assortment of interests.”

“Jack of all trades, master of none,” Dave said. “Some of these are Leslie’s, some are mine. I’ve been trying to box them up for donation, but . . . well, it hasn’t been a priority lately.”

“Do you have a picture of Theresa that we might have?” Sherlock asked.

“Not a recent one, but I do have a picture of her and her mother somewhere in here.” Dave rummaged through a box near the front door, knocking over a stack of crossword puzzle books in the process. “Do you do puzzles, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I do not find them challenging.”

“It’s a strange thing about puzzles. The human mind wants to plunge right in and put the puzzle together. I’m sure it’s like you and the mysteries you solve. I’ve spent hours doing them as I’ve sat with Leslie. I tried that other one . . . Sudoku? But I always come back to my puzzles. They keep my mind active.” 

“I’m sure it’s fascinating,” Sherlock said dryly.

Dave pulled another box from under a table. “Like trying to find a needle in a haystack, isn’t it? Ah, here it is.” 

He handed the framed photo to Sherlock. Taken in the back garden in front of the hydrangeas, the picture was of two petite women, obviously mother and daughter. Theresa’s strained smile could not conceal the fact she didn’t want her picture taken. She purposefully leaned away from her mother who stood behind her, wrapping her arms all the more tighter around the girl’s waist as if she could will Theresa to stay with her. Both women had blue eyes and the same shade of golden red hair.

Dave’s eyes grew misty. “My wife is the most wonderful woman in the world. But if she has a fault, it is Theresa. She could never say no to her. One of Theresa’s counselors in rehab said she was an ‘enabler,’ and I guess she was. I wanted to cut Theresa off years ago and let her hit rock bottom. But I know Leslie was still giving her money.”

“She sounds like a kind woman,” John said gently. 

For the first time that afternoon, Dave showed a real depth of feeling. “She’s not just kind, she is brilliant. You could give her a hundred quid and in a month she would have made you a fortune. That’s the kind of investment banker she was. But she had as many different interests as I do, and she was good at them all, like gardening. She was passionate about helping the underprivileged, about women’s rights, about furthering her education. That’s how we met. At a C. S. Lewis lecture series.” 

“Do you know who might have wanted to kill Theresa?” Sherlock interrupted.

The brief moment of animation was over. Dave shrugged. “Another junkie? Her pimp? Who knows? I’m sure she made enemies.”

“I am very sorry for your loss.” John extended his hand to the older man who gripped it tightly.

“Do you think you can catch the person who did this?” Dave asked.

“I am certain of it,” Sherlock replied. 

Dave turned from John and looked Sherlock up and down. “Mr. Holmes, I almost can believe you. If Leslie could, she would want to thank you for your service, so I’ll do it for her. Thank you, Mr. Holmes. Thank you, Dr. Watson.”

The men rushed to their waiting cab, hoping to avoid the inevitable downpour of rain, but they didn’t make it. The skies opened and they were wet before even opening the cab door.

“Where to, mate?” asked the cabbie pleasantly.

“221B Baker Street,” Sherlock said. “At least there I can change clothes and start sorting out what we’ve learned.”

“Which isn’t a lot,” John muttered.

“Not true, Watson. I learned quite a bit about Theresa’s lifestyle, her upbringing, her stepfather.”

“How does any of that tie in with her murder?” John shook his head, trying to rid his hair of water. “We haven’t learned anything that will prevent tomorrow’s murder.”

Sherlock pulled out his mobile and dialed a number. “It’s me. I have something I need you to do.”

s~s~s~s~s~

Done with work for the day, Molly waited for Sherlock in his rooms dressed in a smart pair of dark boots, jeans, and an oversized cream sweater.

“Was it a bad day?” she asked, drawing her legs under her on the couch.

“Not bad, not good.” Sherlock dropped down next to her. “I am here only to change clothes.”

Molly leaned in and pressed her cool lips against his. Her kisses were always softer than he expected, something startling, like the first drop of rain when the clouds roll in low and fast. They left him breathless and a little confused about what he needed to focus on.

“I know you need to work right now,” she said as if she could read his mind. “And because I am a distraction, I’ll be going.”

“You could help me work out some details,” Sherlock proposed.

“In your mind palace? You don’t let strangers in, remember?”

“John had to catch up with Mary for some stupid reason or another, so it would be a great service if you would just let me hypothesize.”

Molly grinned. “I can do that.”

“The first victim, Pete, was a bartender who also sold drugs. He was by all accounts a very nice guy, for a dealer. But then, I have known some nice dealers myself.”

“Sherlock,” Molly cautioned him.

“Pete was found wearing short pants and an argyle sweater near a children’s park. His feet had been bound with rope.”

“Women in Asia used to bind their feet because they thought small feet were beautiful,” Molly offered.

“The clothes he wore are typical of what a mum would make a young boy wear to get his picture taken,” Sherlock mused.

“Someone wanted him to remain small? Stay a little boy?” Molly scratched her head.

“Theresa, on the other hand, was stabbed in the heart, then her body was painted with common white household paint. She was dressed in a simple cotton nightgown and her hair was trimmed off.” Sherlock recited the facts.

“It sounds like she is being made into a sick virginal fantasy bride for someone. Maybe for Pete?” Molly asked. “Didn’t Greg say that he thought Theresa was hanging around Pete’s pub? Maybe they were a couple and no one knew.”

“I have someone working on that angle. And I have notified the homeless network to dig up information on Theresa.” Sherlock closed his eyes. “Then we have the third victim, Akila. Practically decapitated with a mirror. How does she fit in? And what do the black bows and the cuts on their hands mean?”

Molly lightly caressed his brow. “I won’t bother suggesting you rest or eat, so why don’t you go change? I know this case is pretty baffling, but I also know you are the man who will solve it.”


	4. Chapter 4

_He is the most beautiful man I have ever seen._

The youngest pathologist ever on staff at the prestigious St. Bart’s Hospital stared into Sherlock Holmes’ quicksilver blue-green eyes, speechless. 

“Molly? Did you hear me? This is Sherlock Holmes,” repeated Mike Stamford. “He’s the one I told you about yesterday. He’ll be in your lab quite often because I’ve given him . . . well, I guess I’ll call them ‘morgue privileges.’”

Hands clasped behind his back, Sherlock towered over her, summing her up and dismissing her in one glance. Her cheeks burning, Molly Hooper looked down at her sky blue jumper with the sweet appliqued daisies trailing out of the pockets. 

“So you are . . . I see you’re working on dating those bones . . . I know quite a bit about that and . . .” 

Smirking, Sherlock returned to his microscope. “I need three petri dishes.”

Without giving it a second thought, Molly scurried off to help him.

This became their pattern: She would transform from an educated professional into a schoolgirl whenever he burst into her lab, and he would order her about with an imperious attitude. As much as her behavior—and his—frustrated her, Molly couldn’t stop acquiescing to his demands or hiding the fact she was a little in love with him, even when he treated her rudely. With pale skin, raven curls, and angular features, Sherlock’s distinctive appearance was less boyish than the men Molly typically was drawn to, but if a man could be beautiful, Sherlock was he.

It wasn’t until he revealed in a rare unguarded moment that she mattered to him—“You've always counted and I’ve always trusted you”—that Molly realized Sherlock actually considered her to be his friend. 

And it wasn’t until he returned from a three-year, self-imposed exile to dismantle Moriarty’s criminal network that Sherlock had gradually let her know he cared for her. Months passed before they reached what he termed an “understanding” (which to Molly meant relationship), and even longer still for him to physically let her know how much she meant to him.

He had been well worth the wait.

As the returning rain replaced the sounds of traffic from the street below, Molly thought Sherlock had drifted off. His chest rose and fell rhythmically, and he sighed softly as she caressed his forehead with feathery light strokes. Slowly she rose to her feet, careful not to disturb him. 

But he wasn’t asleep. 

“Have I ever told you that the way I respond to your touch is a mystery I can’t rationally solve?” 

Molly smiled. “Maybe once or twice.”

Sherlock’s eyes opened. “I texted the Mesreys from the cab. They are planning to be home in an hour and a half and are expecting me then,” he said, arching his back as he stretched. 

Molly couldn’t help but appreciate the movement of the muscles under his purple shirt. The rain must have been blowing sideways to make the fabric damp enough to cling to the long, lean lines of his torso. 

“I’ll be on my way then,” she said and picked up her striped bag.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re coming with me,” Sherlock stated.

“I am?” Pushing her long, chestnut hair away from her face, Molly fought the urge to snap that she had been up at the crack of dawn to do the autopsy he had requested and was now bone tired. 

“Of course. John isn’t available. I’ll be examining the room of a young girl. Your insights may prove helpful as I work through my deductions.” Sherlock’s face was a quizzical mask. “Problem?”

What had John once called him? “The foremost champion of law and order of our generation.” Molly scoffed at herself for thinking he had dozed off. She knew he wouldn’t eat or sleep in order to focus his incredible intelligence on this mystery. The least she could do was go with him if he asked her.

Molly reached to pull Sherlock to his feet, intertwining her fingers through his. “No problem at all.” 

Sherlock’s hand rested on the softness of her hip as he stood, whether to steady himself or as an overture she didn’t know. He normally didn’t consider his physical desires while working a case, unless he thought fulfilling them would help focus his thoughts—not a romantic proposition by any means, but Molly didn’t need candlelight and flowers anymore. She knew how he felt about her.

Without breaking eye contact, Sherlock slipped off his suit coat and tossed it on the couch. She watched as his fingers flew up the front of his shirt, deftly releasing each button, before tossing it on top of the coat. 

“I have time for a quick shower,” the detective announced as he strode toward the back of the flat, then purposefully looked over his shoulder with a knowing gleam in his eye. “I assume you’ll be joining me?”

~s~s~s~s~s~

The air was heavy with grief. The family, exhausted and numb, sat in the front room of their crowded flat. Akilah’s mother, eyes rimmed in red, barely acknowledged the couple’s presence when they entered. It was the victim’s uncle who spoke in hushed tones, reiterating what Greg had told them: Akilah was a good girl, obedient and kind, who spent her free time volunteering at school. She didn’t have a boyfriend—she was devoted to her studies. Realizing they would learn nothing new, Sherlock asked him to take them to Akilah’s room. The uncle complied and gave them permission to search it.

Compared to what Molly remembered about her bedroom during her teen years, Akilah Mesrey’s room was positively Spartan. No posters on the wall, no dirty clothes on the floor, no unmade bed. Tidy to a fault, the small room was decorated mainly with black-and-white photos the girl had taken of flowers. 

“This room is the image her family expected of her,” Sherlock said more to himself than to Molly. “She hid her other activities well.”

Molly knelt to look at the stuffed animals stacked in the corner. “Don’t make the poor girl sound like she was the criminal.” 

“She wasn’t what she appeared to be, obviously. It was your autopsy that showed she wasn’t a virgin.”

“Keep you voice down!” Molly hissed, looking toward the door in horror.

“The family has one computer kept in the front room so they can monitor its use,” Sherlock continued, rifling through a stack of school papers on Akilah’s desk. 

Molly sat on the edge of the twin bed. “Without her mobile, how are we going to figure out whom she had beer with?” 

Tossing the papers down absently, Sherlock thoughtfully tapped his pointer finger to his chin. “The mother was vigilant in tracking the girl’s online activity. She would have also monitored the mobile. No, Akilah would have used another way to communicate with this person.”

Molly reached back to pull her still-damp hair into a ponytail. She felt rejuvenated after her unplanned shower encounter. “Then we need to find her best friend. A girlfriend will always know her mate’s secrets.”

Sherlock arched his brows. “Why?”

“Because girls like to talk, silly. I’m sure Akilah had a friend she confided in.”

“Alice.”

They turned in unison to see the youngest of Akilah’s brothers standing in the doorway, staring at them blankly.

“What did you say?” Sherlock asked.

“Alice,” the boy said again. “She wants to be called Alice. Only mum and Uncle Bes call her Akilah.”

“Do you know who her best girlfriend was?” Molly asked kindly.

He shrugged. “Margaret.”

“Do you know her last name?” Sherlock demanded.

The boy shrugged again. “No. But she lives two floors down by the lift.”

~s~s~s~s~s~

It didn’t take Sherlock long to deduce Margaret was Margaret Preston, a school chum of Alice’s. The girl told them between hiccupping sobs that Alice had been secretly seeing Roger Jackson, a twenty-one-year-old youth who did odd jobs for the groundskeeper at the local golf course. Margaret often acted as intermediary between the two, although she said once in a while Alice would text Roger on her own mobile. 

Thirty minutes later, Sherlock had tracked Roger down at his neighborhood pub. Sitting in a corner booth, Roger was in shock when they told him about his girlfriend’s murder.

“I can’t believe this is happening” he said over and over again.

Sherlock impatiently leaned across the table. “Yes, yes, I understand, this is all a shock. But you have to focus. Tell me about the last time you saw Alice.”

Roger regarded him blankly. “She told Mrs. Harris she was going to spend lunch working in the library, but she was with me instead. I picked her up near the school and we went to Whitestone Park. I brought her lunch and a drink. We ate and snogged for a while.”

“That’s it?” Sherlock asked.

Roger stared into his beer. “We did have a bit of a row.”

Molly perked up. “About?”

“I wanted her to stay longer.” Roger’s voice was low and filled with tears. “She said she really did have to go help out in the library. We fought. She told me to sod off and she left.”

“So you didn’t drive her back?” Molly asked.

The boy shook his head. “I wish to God I had. After I cooled down, I texted her even though she had said never to text her mobile. I told her to wait for me. But I thought everything was OK because she wrote back and said she had gotten a ride.”

Sherlock looked up sharply. “Do you still have that text?”

Handing the detective his mobile, Roger continued. “She said it was fine. She said she was fine.”

Sherlock scrolled through the texts until he found the correct message and read it aloud. “‘Don’t worry. Ran into a friend. Am fine. He’s giving me a ride.’” 

“That’s the last I heard from her,” Roger said brokenly as Sherlock stood and rushed from the booth. 

Molly murmured some condolences before chasing after the detective.

“Finally!” he exclaimed as the cold night air slapped them in the face. “A real lead!”

Molly shivered. “Sally Donovan found out Akilah—I mean Alice—wasn’t seen at school after lunch.” 

Excitement radiated from Sherlock like waves of heat. “Whomever she met had to be her killer.”

“Where to now?”

“Lestrade’s office.”


	5. Chapter 5

_Sleep is forgiveness. The night absolves._

Where had he read that? Lestrade couldn't remember, not that it mattered. It was late and cold and he had been operating on only a few hours of sleep. He wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and pull his wife close. He'd like to think she would smile and welcome him into her arms like she did when they were first married, but more than likely she'd tell him to stop bothering her and grumble that his feet were like blocks of ice.

He half-heartedly pitched a takeaway coffee cup toward his overflowing waste bin and watched it bounce off the rim and roll back toward him. He started drinking coffee when he was fifteen. He took it black, like his dad did—none of these concoctions that were popular with the younger crowd. If you asked him, if you needed to add whipped cream, it wasn't even coffee anymore—it was a dessert. Even so, the dark swill they made in the squad room didn't pack the same punch it used to; he drank it now more out of habit than anything else. He needed to go over the info Donovan had dug up, but he knew another cup wouldn't help him stay awake.

Years of police work creased his brow. Lestrade had risen up the ranks by thinking on his feet and learning fast. He had a mulish tendency to follow a lead wherever it took him and the wisdom to step back and see the big picture. Liked by his superiors and his fellow officers, he was well read, honest to the bone, and smart enough to recognize brilliance when he saw it.

Sherlock Holmes had come into his life an addict who had solved a complicated crime. Imperious, smug, condescending—and a junkie—Sherlock would have been dismissed as a crackpot by most people in the building, but Lestrade saw the man's pure talent. He quickly calculated the benefits of having this consulting detective help him and made a deal with the devil: if Sherlock would clean up his act, the detective inspector would give him cases to work.

It was a mutually beneficial relationship that required Lestrade to check his ego at the door. He knew early on that Sherlock was better than him at solving the more baffling cases that crossed his desk, but he didn't resent the younger man. No, he was proud of him. He truly cared for the git, even though Sherlock couldn't be bothered to remember his first name. Lestrade once told his wife he didn't want to become like that "idiot composer who was threatened by Mozart in that movie," but she really wasn't listening.

Lestrade surveyed the bullpen outside his glass-enclosed office where a few dedicated officers pursued leads that had come in after the Mesrey girl's murder had hit the news. The phone had rung constantly and the department PR person—Andrea something or other—kept coming downstairs to insist he had to stay in front of this or it could become a nightmare.

_When did my job become more about keeping the press at bay and less about catching criminals?_

Looking at the open file on his desk, Lestrade tried to focus. Donovan had done good work researching inmates who had committed similar murders and came up with three good matches that their serial killer might be copycatting. He was going with the hunch the perp could be in communication with one of them. Glancing at the clock, Lestrade felt his ulcer give him a good kick. He would see the inmates, all at the same maximum-security facility, in the morning. There was nothing more he could do tonight to prevent the next murder.

_Do I make any difference at all?_ he thought bleakly.

He wasn't religious, but he had a reverence for nature. Being out on the land or the sea renewed him. All his life he had salved his hurts in the empty expanses of meadows, rivers, and moors. When this case was over, he'd take a long vacation.

"I need to see the girl's book bag." Sherlock's baritone voice boomed across the room as he swept in with Molly Hooper on his heels.

"Why?" Lestrade tossed his reading glasses on the desk.

His pulse quickened briefly as Sherlock summarized what he had learned at the Mesrey home and from Roger. Grabbing his phone, Lestrade called down the order to the guys in evidence.

"What are you hoping to find?" he asked as he hung up.

"Something that might indicate who the 'friend' was," Sherlock said. "What fingerprints were found on the bag and books?"

"Akila's. The killer had to have worn gloves. There was trace organic matter on the hem of her coat that Anderson is working on."

"Have the samples sent to St. Bart's," Sherlock said as he settled onto the chair next to Molly. Her eyes barely open, Molly elbowed him.

"Please," Sherlock said in response.

A few minutes later an officer deposited the book bag and its contents sealed in evidence bags in front of them. On his feet instantly, Sherlock carefully examined each notebook, pencil, and book.

"She must have been doing a report on children's literature or something," Molly murmured, looking at the collection of books. "Kipling, Barrie, Carroll, Stevenson."

"I'll have the CCTV pulled from around the park." Lestrade ground his teeth. "The killer's car  _has_  to be on there! We'll re-interview the girl's friends."

"If she felt comfortable getting into this person's car, someone had to have seen them together before," Molly surmised.

"The names of the convicts I texted you about." Lestrade handed Sherlock a list.

The detective read it and wadded the paper into a ball. "I doubt this is a profitable line of inquiry."

"Well, I don't really give a rat's arse what you think," Lestrade snapped.

Sherlock lobbed the ball of paper toward the bin, making it in one shot. "I don't know what you and your officers have been doing today, but I suggest Scotland Yard focus on—"

"I am fighting the urge to punch you right now." Lestrade felt the vein in his forehead start to pound. "Have you read the headlines? They're screaming that a psychopath murdered a child. We have to sort out the crackpots calling in and sending emails from any real leads. I'd like to see you spend five minutes dealing with the berks that are wasting our time with nonsense!"

"Such as?" Sherlock asked pointedly.

Lestrade opened a folder and began to read. "'My animal spirit says the murderer lives in York.' 'It's all in black and white'—I got that one twice. One asks me how I liked the movie. What does that even mean? 'I saw the victim talking to three men in dark overcoats at the London Eye last week.' And then there is my personal favorite, 'The killer is in Calais. I can go investigate, if you'd front the airfare.'"

No longer paying attention, Sherlock looked through his texts. "I need to make a call," he announced.

Calming down, Lestrade joined Molly, who stood in the doorway staring at Sherlock as he paced rapidly and spoke in low tones, heavy bags under his eyes.

"He looks a wreck." Even though it had been years since Sherlock had used recreationally, Lestrade remained alert to any signs his friend could be slipping.

"Pot meet kettle." Molly arched a brow.

Momentarily confused, Lestrade paused. "Yeah, but I'll sleep tonight. Probably. He won't."

"I know."

He didn't try to disguise his concern as he watched her absently bite her lower lip.

"Listen, forget I said anything, OK?" Lestrade forced a chuckle. "He's Sherlock. He's fine. Don't fret."

Molly gave him a nod, stifling a yawn.

"We need to go, Molly!" Sherlock called.

"Hey, you great bloody git! She's dead on her feet. She should be on her way home," Lestrade said. "You go; I'll call a cab for her."

Hesitating a fraction of a second to look at his pathologist, Sherlock walked out the door.

"You needn't bother—" Molly began.

"Sit down before you fall down, yeah?" Lestrade circled back to his desk and quickly ordered her a cab.

"I am tired," Molly conceded. "I'd only slow him down, anyway. But I could've called."

Lestrade shook his head. "You nearly died because I didn't follow up with you when Charlie Milverton was killed. I think I can get you a cab."

"Are you still going on about that?" Molly's brown eyes widened. "Even if you had come right over the minute you knew Milverton had photos of me, it still would've been too late. You're too hard on yourself, Greg."

Swallowing hard, he gestured toward the door. "I'll walk you down."

"Let's split the fare. Go home and get some sleep. You'll be of no use to anyone if you don't," she chided him.

It had been a long time since a woman had spoken so kindly to him. He grabbed his coat and flipped off the lights.

"Sherlock doesn't deserve you, you know?" he said warmly.

Molly linked her arm through his. "I know."

~s~s~s~s~s~

"Let me lead the way, yeah? And don't look them in the eye."

"Are they territorial primates?"

"Huh?" Andy James scratched his head.

"Never mind." Sherlock turned up the collar of his Belstaff coat to ward off the icy breeze. He hadn't expected Pete Marchand's cousin to understand his reference.

Inky darkness surrounded them like a living thing below, above, and on all sides. The pair walked down a back alley in a section of the city Sherlock frequented often in his days at uni. Andy stopped in front of a boarded-up building.

"And don't talk to none of them neither."

"It's 'any' and 'either.'"

"Huh?"

"'Don't talk to  _any_  of them  _either_.'"

Andy shrugged. "Yeah, sure."

"Don't let my appearance fool you. I do know how to handle myself in a drug house." Sherlock took a deep inhale as shouldered open the main door. The rank odor was ripe with urine, vomit, and garbage. "In fact, I may have been in this very one."

"I did just what you said, Mr. Holmes. I showed the picture around these houses after I got it from you earlier," Andy whispered. "I found her in the back. Her name is Lucy. Don't know her last name. She used to be one of Pete's regulars."

Sherlock's sharp features faded into the shadows. "You told me Pete didn't deal anything serious."

"He didn't," Andy said defensively. "He only sold her a little weed. She got the smack from someone else."

Sherlock heard murmurings in the shadows but nothing threatening, just lost souls trying to find distraction and comfort in substances that would eventually let them down. At least that had been his experience, although the temptation to use lurked in the back of his mind like an itch he couldn't quite reach.

They turned into a squalid room where a man moaned pitifully on the floor in front of them. Sherlock stepped over the prone form to where Andy pointed. A rail-thin woman in her forties sat on a filthy blanket, disheveled and glassy eyed.

"Lucy, remember me? Andy? I talked to you about Pete?"

She nodded vaguely. "He's a nice bloke."

"Show her the picture again," Sherlock ordered.

Pete crouched and took the picture of Theresa and her mom from his pocket.

"Tell Mr. Holmes what you told me," he said.

Lucy studied Sherlock's face carefully. "I don't know you."

"What do you know of Pete Marchand and this young woman?"

"I seen them, didn't I? Out behind the pub. I got some stuff from Pete and this one"—Lucy tapped the photo—"came up to us. But she didn't look nice like she does here. She looked like a whore. Said she needed to talk to him."

"Are you sure it was her?" Sherlock demanded.

Lucy's dirty blond head bobbed up and down. "It was her alright. Red-gold hair. Just like her mum."

The man moaning suddenly became quiet. The room was silent except for the rough breathing of someone in the corner.

"Got a fag on you?" Lucy petted Andy's shoulder.

Sherlock headed toward the door, then whirled around.

"How did you know she had hair like her mum?" he asked.

"That's her, innit?" Lucy gestured again toward the picture. "The woman in the picture with the girl? That's her mum, innit? I seen her, too."

Sherlock was across the room and in Lucy's face in two strides.

"Where? Where did you see Theresa's mum?"

"At the pub a few times. It were a long time ago, back when before I . . ." She waved airily around the room. "I seen her talking to Pete. She and him were mates."

Andy thrust a cigarette at the woman and ran to catch up with Sherlock as the detective rushed from the building.

"What does it mean, Mr. Holmes?" Andy panted when he finally caught up to the taller man.

Sherlock didn't answer. His mobile was out and he texted rapidly, not caring if he woke John Watson or not.


	6. Chapter 6

Rain draped over the bustling city like a thin, gray shawl, prompting Mary and John to dash the short distance from the cab to the ornately carved wooden door of the restaurant. Mrs. Hudson hadn't exaggerated when she recommended The West Inn as one of the most romantic restaurants downtown. The couple was immediately greeted by a soft-spoken maître d' who escorted them to the corner table John had reserved.

Candlelight, fresh flowers, soft music in the background—Mary shivered in excitement. It was an obvious place for a proposal, and one of the things she loved the most about John Watson was his good-hearted straightforwardness. Smiling behind her napkin, she watched as he toyed with his fork, pushing food about his plate, clearly preoccupied. Once the server had cleared the dishes, however, he didn't waste any time. John poured more wine and raised his glass as if to say a toast but instead her heart skipped a beat as he recited from memory one of her favorite love poems by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

"'I love thee with the breath, smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.'" His voice trembled. "Sarah Louise Mary Morstan, you are the kindest, most loving woman I have ever known. I don't deserve you, but I offer you all that I am. Will you marry me?"

"Of course I will, and the sooner the better!" she exclaimed and threw her arms around him. When he finished kissing her thoroughly, she was in tears and he slipped an emerald-cut diamond onto her finger.

It was remarkably chilly when they left, with cutting winds and insubstantial clouds that hung low, making it the perfect atmosphere to snuggle under a warm blanket—not that they needed any extra incentive to go to bed.

It was much later when John's mobile vibrated on the dresser across the room; when it went off again a minute later, Mary opened her eyes. The third time she was completely awake. It could have been an emergency call from a patient, but she didn't think so. This had happened too many times before. She thumped her pillow twice before rolling onto her side.

"John? You're getting a text in."

"Huhmh," he mumbled. She knew his wartime experience on the frontlines and his years with Sherlock Holmes had trained him to wake at ungodly hours and get out of bed quickly whether or not he was actually fully conscious.

"Hello?"

One peaceful moment passed, then another. Mary had almost drifted off again when John's harsh whispering left no doubt with whom he was talking.

"Do you even know what time it is? Because it does matter! No, don't! Don't come over! Sherlock—"

Exasperated, John slammed the mobile down.

"Let me guess. He's on his way." Mary's eyes gradually adjusted to the dark bedroom and she tried not to laugh. Silhouetted in the pale streetlight streaming through a gap in the patterned curtains, John was a funny sight. His sandy hair, which he still had cut monthly with military precision, stood on end.

"He called from the cab." John slid back under the covers. "I'm sorry he woke you."

"Oh, I had to get up in"—Mary strained to look over his shoulder at the unrelenting red numbers of the digital clock—"three hours anyway."

John leaned in and kissed her. They sank back into the pillows until Mary reluctantly broke away.

"Our company will be here soon." She giggled as he continued to shower her with kisses.

"Promise you won't change your answer because my best friend is an inconsiderate jerk."

Mary held up her left hand to admire her new ring, which flashed briefly in the lights of an oncoming car.

"I've known Sherlock is an inconsiderate jerk since the first day I met him. But I know he's part of the deal—if I get you, I take him, too. I'll never change my answer," she said. "I love you too much."

"I really wish he wasn't coming over," John moaned.

Mary patted his cheek. "Up and at 'em, soldier. A car just pulled up."

At first she tried to ignore the raised voices in the living room, but it was too easy to pick out intriguing words like "serial killer" and "drug house." Snatches of the conversation drifted in as Sherlock's narrative, fast-paced and baritone, was occasionally interrupted by John's quieter tones. Finally, Mary gave up and put on her soft, white robe.

"Good morning, Sherlock," she said, glancing toward the consulting detective who didn't acknowledge her. Mary opened and shut kitchen cabinets, pulling out cups and saucers over her fiancé's obscenity-laced rant at his best friend's rudeness.

"She is going to be my wife, and you will respond to her when she speaks. You will treat her nicer than you have ever treated her before. Try to act like a civilized human being!"

"Yes, yes, congratulations on your engagement," Sherlock said, unimpressed. "Can we get back to what's really important? Alice met Roger in the park. He's the one who gave Alice the sandwich and the beer, which Molly discovered was the contents of her stomach."

Watching from the kitchen, Mary could see John, hands on hips, frown in confusion. "Wait—who is Alice?"

"Alice is Akila." Sherlock started to pace. "I learned last night from her younger brother that she preferred to be called Alice. You would know that if you had accompanied me."

"I had plans with Mary," John growled. "Who is Roger again?"

Sherlock looked heavenward as if he hoped an all-powerful being would grant him patience in dealing with his slow-witted friend. "Roger is Alice's boyfriend. Please try to keep up."

"It's bloody early and I'm tired!" John shouted. Settling into his usual chair, he returned to the calm, steady demeanor. "And now you say an addict saw Theresa's mother at Pete's pub?"

"It's our first tangible connection between the crimes."

"Because addicts are so reliable," John muttered.

"Try to keep your juvenile remarks to a minimum." Sherlock's deadpan expression held a hint of anger. "I need your help to connect these threads to Alice's death."

Mary didn't try to stifle her yawn as she handed them each a piping hot cup of coffee.

"I always hated that book," she murmured.

"What book is that, dear?" John asked as Sherlock rolled his eyes in frustration.

"Alice in Wonderland. I had to memorize a part in my poetry class. I think I may even remember it." Mary sat on the arm of John's chair as the first vivid pinks of sunrise appeared in the eastern sky. "'The time has come . . ..' Wait, how does that go? 'The time has come, the walrus said, to talk of many things. Of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings.'"

"That's not from Alice in Wonderland. That quote's from the sequel. Both books are part of the 'Alice's Adventures in Wonderland' series." He affectionately rubbed her leg.

Sherlock and Mary's stared at him, puzzled.

"Someone sent a box of classic books to a buddy of mine when we were deployed. There was nothing else to read," he quickly explained.

"Truly fascinating. What an exciting marriage you two will have quoting Lewis Carroll to one another." Sherlock's voice dripped with sarcasm.

"Oh, Sherlock. Sod off," Mary said sweetly.

Sherlock continued unperturbed. "Leslie Wilson was at Pete's pub, presumably looking for her daughter. I need to find whomever else she may have spoken with . . ."

The last swallow of coffee was bitter, but Mary forced it down. It wasn't until a moment later that she realized Sherlock had stopped speaking.

"I've been an idiot!" Sherlock's catlike eyes narrowed.

"Most times you're a complete idiot, but what specifically have you done now?" John sighed.

They watched as Sherlock walked back and forth slowly as the enormity of his insight hit him full force.

"Blind! I've been criminally blind! We have to go to the Met immediately!"

Recognizing that his friend had made a breakthrough in his deductions, John jumped to his feet and rushed to get dressed.

"What's happened?" Mary felt baffled, having never seen Sherlock reach an epiphany before. "Will one of you tell me what's going on?"

Sherlock's face lit up like every fiber of his being was vibrating with intense energy.

"The book? The outfit? And Alice!" He leaned forward and placed his hands on either side of her face. "The killer practically telegraphed this to me, but I didn't understand."

"What is it?" Mary gasped under his penetrating stare.

Sherlock looked grimly satisfied.

"Clues. The killer has been sending clues all along."

~s~s~s~s~s~

Lestrade took the law seriously; he took his job seriously. Therefore, he took Sherlock Holmes seriously when he texted. Only having had time to shower and catch a few hours of sleep, Lestrade nevertheless jumped out of bed and hurried to his office.

"What's this all about?" he blustered gruffly to no one in particular in the mostly empty bullpen. A moment later Sherlock and John rushed in.

"I have to see the books," the detective demanded.

"I got your text, remember? They are on their way up from evidence," Lestrade said.

"And the—"

"Already taken care of," the older cop interrupted. "Sent Donovan for it. Miller, do you have those emails?"

DS Joe Miller was about to hand the printout to his boss when Sherlock snatched them away and began reading.

"Here are the books." Lestrade waved over the officer who had just come in carrying evidence bags. "Now will you explain?"

Sherlock inhaled dramatically.

"When John and Mary were discussing Lewis Carroll, it reminded me that in Alice Mesrey's book bag was a copy of Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There," he said triumphantly and picked up the bagged book.

Facing two blank stares, Sherlock impatiently gestured. "Don't you see? A looking glass is a mirror! When she was murdered, Alice literally went through the looking glass!"

"What?" an astounded John asked.

"I found an unwrapped DVD of Peter Pan in Pete Marchand's home, which you assure me the incompetent Donovan is going to retrieve. That book was originally published as Peter Pan, or, The Boy Who Wouldn't Grow Up." Sherlock smiled broadly. "Pete Marchand was found dressed like a little boy and his feet were bound."

Lestrade snatched the other evidence bag from the officer. "The subtitle of Tess of D'Ubervilles is 'A Pure Woman Faithfully Presented.'"

"Theresa was painted white and dressed in a white nightgown. She had been returned to a virginal state." Sherlock nodded.

"You're saying the killer took time to sedate Pete and Theresa, dress them up, and then leave clues as to why he chose those outfits?" John asked.

"Not only that!" Sherlock waved the printout in front of Lestrade. "He has been taunting you. These texts you received—'It's all in black and white' and 'How did you like the movie?'—they are from the killer!"

Lestrade sat silent for a moment, then shook his head.

"No, no, no! This doesn't match any of our profiles. The person you're describing is a highly organized killer. But the randomness of how he's choosing victims says he is a disorganized killer."

Sherlock drew himself up to his full height. "Again, Lestrade, here is where my singular abilities have born fruit. I have found a connection between the first two victims."

After he finished relaying his conversation with Lucy the addict, Sherlock added thoughtfully, "I need to link Alice to the others. Once I deduce how they're connected, I can find the murderer."

"Why didn't he dress Alice in a blue dress and white apron like the character in the movie?" Lestrade mused.

Sherlock jerked a chair out from behind a desk and sat with his fingers steepled under his chin.

"He was rushed. He didn't plan this one as well as the others."

"The DVD was left in Pete's flat and not with his body. How did the killer get in?" John asked.

"Pete's car has never been found. The murderer obviously has a set of keys," Sherlock explained. "For some reason, he couldn't leave the DVD with the body."

"And the 'X' cut into their hands? And the black bows?" Lestrade demanded. "What do they have to do with anything?"

"I don't know yet. The next victim will give me more data," Sherlock said offhandedly.

John made a disgusted noise. "Someone will probably be ruthlessly killed by this lunatic today. Can you try to care?"

"Will caring prevent the next murder? No, only detective work will," Sherlock snapped. "You can wring your hands or you can work. Lestrade, we need to trace where these books and that DVD came from."

"Right. I'm also going round up this Lucy character," Lestrade said. "Where are you heading to?"

"Pete's pub." A fierce determination burned behind Sherlock's eyes. "I will find someone else Leslie Wilson spoke to."


	7. Chapter 7

"Why do I get myself into these situations?" Molly grumbled as she headed out of town.

_Because you are too nice_  answered the voice in her head, which was beginning to sound more and more like Sherlock—or at least as condescending.

After saying goodnight to Greg outside the Met, she had blearily taken a cab home and slept hard the minute her head hit the pillow. After enjoying a good lie in on Sunday morning, she had checked for new texts from Sherlock, but there were none. Clicking on the television, she saw the story of Akila's murder plastered all over the news. Some of the stations were running reports on Pete but very few had anything about Theresa.

Molly had puttered around the flat for a while, hoping Sherlock would stop by or text, but when he didn't, she went about her day. She felt a little worried but knew that when he was on a case, he could go days without being in touch. Luckily the day ended without any reports of new victims being found.

Her next shift wasn't until the next afternoon, and still no word from the consulting detective. Feeling agitated and a little distracted, Molly didn't particularly want to speak with Lori Koetsier, the bubbly new lab assistant, but the girl greeted her warmly outside of the locker room.

"Hi Dr. Hooper!"

"How has it been today?" Molly asked. "No new murder victims, I hope."

The girl— _No, no_ , Molly mentally corrected herself,  _the woman_ —could pass for a young Reese Witherspoon with her heart-shaped face and long blonde bob.

"It's been quiet. Just a fatality in a drunk-driving accident. No Black Bow victims," Lori replied with a nervous giggle. "Here are the sedative test results in the McKeon case. You also received an organic matter sample from Scotland Yard. I placed it on a slide at your microscope."

"Thank you."

Thumbing through the report, Molly hummed absently. She knew the same sedative was in all three victims, but she was surprised to see the type. She sent the results directly to Lestrade and Sherlock's mobiles.

Molly slid onto her stool and adjusted the lens of the microscope. "Lori, I need to test the alkalinity of this sample. Can you get me the—"

The petite blonde positively twinkled. "I'm on it!"

Molly glanced up in time to see Glenn Pritchard passing Lori in the doorway. A tall, lanky man with thinning red hair, Prichard had been on staff for almost a year.

"Hello, Glenn," she said. "Isn't today your day off?"

"I have a favor to ask," the older man said in greeting.

"Yes?" Molly had a sinking feeling in her stomach.

"You see, there's been a bit of a hullabaloo. I just met with Mike Stamford."

"Oh?"

"A body came in early yesterday when I was on duty. It should've gone up to cancer research, but there was an error in the paperwork."

"Oh no," Molly gasped. "Didn't you double-check the consent form?"

"Who has time to do that?" Dr. Pritchard said defensively. "The autopsy was already done when I discovered the error. Anyway, Stamford got involved and insisted we tell the family and apparently it's a big PR mess now."

Molly sighed. Sherlock was right again. Dr. Pritchard was incompetent.

"What has all this got to do with me?" she finally asked.

"Mike would like you to go personally meet with the family right now, apologize, represent the hospital and all that." Pritchard wiped his glasses on his tie, averting his eyes.

"You made the mistake, Glenn. You should have to talk to the family." Molly's cheeks flushed hotly.

"Of course, but Mike insisted you go," the man blustered. "Said you have a friendlier manner than I do or something like that. I volunteered to cover for you while you pop off and take care of it. Here's the address."

Molly took the piece of paper from him. "This is at least an hour away!"

"That's all right," Dr. Pritchard said. "I can wait."

~s~s~s~s~s~

Wellington's was one of John's favorite pubs. Conveniently located on the way to the clinic, he liked to stop in for a pint after a tough day and when he tried their shepherd's pie, which was as good if not better than his mum's, he was hooked. The problem was he disliked the crowds that swarmed the place at regular mealtimes. So when Mary suggested they meet there for a particularly late lunch, John was all in. Ordering a beer at the bar, he surveyed the room and did a double take when he saw Lestrade drinking alone in a far booth.

"Surprised to see you here," he said as he approached his friend.

Lestrade gestured for him to sit. "All right, John?"

"Yeah, I'm all right. But that was a long day yesterday. And a long night."

"Don't I know it." The detective looked around the room. "Where's Sherlock?"

John tapped his forehead. "In his mind palace. Or at least he was when I left him a couple of hours ago."

"I didn't turn anything up on my end after you left. I take it you didn't have any joy?"

Shaking his head, John could still feel his aching feet after hours of walking the day before. "We must have covered five miles surrounding Pete's pub. No one recognized Leslie Wilson."

Lestrade finished his drink and signaled for another. "That addict Lucy was too strung out to even answer questions. Maybe I'll fare better once she sobers up."

"And the books and movie?"

Lestrade shrugged. "Nothing remarkable about them. The books were used, the DVD was new. No prints on any of them."

"There wasn't a new body yesterday." John tried to be upbeat.

"Not one that we've found yet at least," Lestrade said. "Are you meeting your new fiancée here?"

John couldn't help smiling stupidly. "I didn't get to spend any time with her yesterday. She was already asleep when I got home. She never complains."

Lestrade's chuckle came out more like a snort. "Give it time, mate. My wife used to not complain. Once."

"And now? How does she cope with your hours?" John took a long drink.

Lestrade's stared vacantly to the side for a moment.

"She and I don't really talk much," he said at last.

John eyed him carefully. "I hope you don't mind me asking, but you haven't really seemed like yourself lately. Is everything all right?"

"I'm thinking about chucking it in," Lestrade admiited.

"Quitting? You're quitting?" John looked as if he had been sucker-punched.

"I've been wondering what the point of it all is. We don't prevent crime; we just clean up after it. And sometimes—like now—we can't even do that. Maybe if I quit, I can salvage something of my marriage. Spend more time with my kids. Feel happy again."

"You can't quit," John said emphatically. "The Met needs you. We need you. Sherlock always says you are the best policeman he knows."

"Really?" Lestrade's boyish grin soon faded. "Wait a minute. Knowing Sherlock, that might be an insult."

"Mind if I join you?" Mary bustled up, her long hair cascading in romantic curls.

John stood and gave her a kiss. "I missed you."

"Congrats on your engagement," Lestrade stood and gave her a big hug. "You two take the booth."

"Are you sure?" Mary asked, sitting down.

"Need to get back to it. In fact, here is a text from Molly I missed." Lestrade read his messages. "She's identified the sedative in the three victims."

"What is it?" John asked.

"I can't even begin to pronounce it." Lestrade held his mobile for John to read the text.

The doctor frowned. "That's not readily available to the public."

"Let me give her a call." Lestrade stepped away.

Turning her attention to John, Mary lightly squeezed his hand. "So I was thinking. Why don't we have lunch and then spend the afternoon together?"

"I would like nothing better." John gazed into her eyes. "I'm sorry if I've been neglecting you. Today is just about you and me. See, I'll even turn off my phone."

"Really?" She watched him dubiously. "What if there is a break in the case?"

"Then Sherlock can call Greg. I spent all day and all night with him yesterday. I want to spend time with my fiancée."

Greg came back to the table under a full head of steam. "I'm going to give Mike Stamford a piece of my mind next time I see him. He has a complete sod working in the lab."

"Molly wasn't there?"

"This git says she's running a hospital errand and he can't be bothered to talk to me about the test results. She should be back around 5 p.m. Say, why don't you and Sherlock meet me at the lab then and we'll have Molly get us caught up?"

~s~s~s~s~s~

Rushing up the brick walkway to the stately home, Molly hoped to avoid the ever-present rain. The grey air reflected the nervous dread that filled her stomach. Hesitating for a moment, she summoned up her courage and rang the bell.

The dour-looking woman who answered the door had red hair cropped mannishly and wore a black knit dress.

"I'm Dr. Molly Hooper. From St. Bart's."

The woman stiffened. "They said someone would be around. Come in."

She led Molly through a cluttered foyer to a small sitting room. She gestured to the long-limbed young men sprawled on the genteel furniture.

"I'm Melinda Bindon. These are my sons, Paul, Steve, and George. We're here for my sister's memorial service. Paul, be a good lad and fetch your uncle from upstairs, all right?"

With all attention on her, Molly shifted uncomfortably and edged next to the grandfather clock in the corner. A moment later, the teen returned with a middle-aged man who was so unremarkable Molly didn't think she could even describe him to a police sketch artist. His only distinctive was his eyes, which were red from crying.

"She's from St. Bart's," Melinda explained in a biting tone.

Molly braced for a possible tirade. Instead the man spoke brokenly.

"She left explicit instructions that her body was to be left to science, to education. She wanted some good to come from her death. She wanted to help researchers find a cure." A few tears ran unchecked down his cheeks.

Molly took a deep breath.

"First, let me say I am so sorry for your loss. My father died of the same. I know this is a difficult time, and we made it harder for you. But let me assure you that once the mistake was discovered, your wife's body was delivered to the proper place. We treated her gently and with respect. Her sacrifice will indeed go a long way in helping our research into this terrible disease."

"That's all I ask—that you honor her last wishes." He looked so unsteady on his feet as he finished that Melinda stepped forward.

"Why don't you go lie down again? In a bit the boys and I will run out and pick up something to eat, all right?"

After he walked back up the stairs, Melinda turned to Molly. "Would you care for some tea?"

"I have a cab waiting . . ."

"The hospital is paying, right?" she asked archly. "Well, then they can pay dearly for their mistake."

In the kitchen, Molly sat stiffly at the small table and looked out at the flowers being beaten by the driving rain. On the table next to her was a zippered plastic bag filled with different prescription bottles.

"Were these your sister's?" she asked.

Melinda nodded. "Not that they did a lot of good. I need to dispose of them."

"I'd be happy to take care of that for you," Molly offered.

"You'd do that?"

"Of course." Molly smiled.

"Thank you. There are a few bottles still about, but that's the majority of them." Melinda set two cups on the table.

"When is the memorial service?" Molly asked politely, sipping the warm beverage.

"We had it when we arrived this morning. It was just family. David decided to do it right then because it had finally stopped raining. We went to their little place in the country. Everyone shared a memory or two. When it was David's turn to speak, the sun came out and reflected off the pond. It was like our angel was looking down from heaven." Melinda dabbed at her eyes.

"That sounds nice," Molly said.

"I can't believe she's really gone." Melinda bit her lip. "It's too cruel, her dying so soon after we lost Tessie."

Molly was curious, but the other woman didn't offer any more information, and Molly didn't want to pry. They finished their tea in silence.

"Thank you for coming," Melinda said as she escorted Molly to the door.

"Here's my business card, if you have questions. Again, the hospital is very sorry."

Melinda studied it for a moment. "Molly Hooper. That name is familiar. In fact, you look familiar. Have you been on the telly?"

Molly nodded reluctantly.

"A few weeks ago there was a murder during a robbery. My boy . . . my friend . . . well, he's . . His name is Sherlock Holmes. He's a detective and he solved the case. A reporter ambushed us when we were going into St. Bart's. I . . . may have been on camera for a moment."

"That's it! They asked if you were Sherlock Holmes' girlfriend! I believe he said something quite rude to them."

"That would be correct." Molly blushed furiously. She peered into the sitting room where the three teens sat with their uncle and said her goodbyes.

On the cab ride back to town, she checked her mobile to see if Sherlock had texted her about the test results. He hadn't. In fact, she had no service.

"Shoot," she muttered.

"No reception, miss?" The cabbie chuckled. "We've got terrible reception in these parts, especially during storms."

Molly pocketed her mobile and wondered if it would ever stop raining.

~s~s~s~s~s~

Lestrade was the first to arrive at St. Bart's, finding the quiet lab a welcome change from the busy squad room. And he would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy the friendly attention paid him by the new lab assistant. Lori had just left to get him coffee when John and Molly walked in together.

"No Sherlock?" Lestrade was surprised.

"After I dropped Mary at home, I went by Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson wasn't sure when he left, but she said it was at least a couple of hours ago," John said.

"He hasn't responded to my texts or calls," Lestrade said.

"He hasn't been in touch with me since Saturday night late," Molly said, setting her purse and a bag of prescription bottles on the table.

A ringing mobile broke the silence. Lestrade took his out. "DI Lestrade. Yes? What? Hold on, I'm putting you on speaker. Go ahead."

The woman on the other end continued. "You said to let you know if any other texts or calls came in on the murder case that could be book titles."

"Oh no," whispered Molly. "Not another one."

"And?" Lestrade demanded. "Spit it out, sergeant."

"The message was  _Vanity Fair_. I looked it up. It's a novel by William Makepeace Thackeray."

"Did you also look up the subtitle?"

"Yes. It's 'A Novel without a Hero.'"

Lestrade ended the call. "That message is from him. It's from the killer. I know it."

"Why would he start leaving messages with the book title instead of leaving the book with the body?" John's brow knit in confusion.

"Will one of you tell me what books have to do with the murders?" Molly asked.

As John explained how Sherlock deduced how the titles and the victims went together, an idea began to form in Lestrade's mind. An awful, terrible idea, one that he despaired of but knew in his gut was right. He swiftly sent several texts, all of which went unanswered.

"Sherlock's always the hero," he finally said, his voice full of dread.

"What do you mean?" John asked.

" _Vanity Fair._  Sherlock is vain and he is fair. But in all of his cases, he's the hero, the star of the show. The clue is 'A Novel without a Hero.'" Lestrade stared at them gravely. "Which means we no longer have a hero."

John shook his head slightly, trying to work it out, but Molly showed signs of full-on panic.

"Please tell me what you're talking about!" she cried.

Greg gripped her shoulders.

"The killer has Sherlock."

 


	8. Chapter 8

"John!"

Sherlock sat up with a satisfied smile. Not seeing his best friend in his usual chair, the detective swung his long legs over the front of the couch and looked at the door. A large piece of tablet paper with a hastily scribbled message in thick, black marker was taped on it.

"Left for lunch with Mary."

With an indignant sniff, Sherlock stood and stretched. He checked his mobile and scanned Molly's message about the sedative.

"And that is the final piece of the puzzle," he said with a triumphant flourish.

He called John, but it went straight to voice mail. Next, he tried Molly, but his call went unanswered.

"What use are any of you?" he said aloud.

Solving crimes provided the intellectual challenge he craved; once he had solved it, however, he went on to the next one, not really thinking about his client or about getting paid. Only on a few occasions did he even care about the criminal. But this case was different. Regardless of what John thought, he did care that a child had been horribly murdered. No, this one he took personally, and he wanted to see it through.

He paused. It was an interesting thought that Molly's compassion might be rubbing off on him. He would have to explore that idea later. Slipping on his coat and a camel-colored muffler, Sherlock ran down the stairs and hailed a cab.

~s~s~s~s~s~

Dave Wilson looked especially haggard when he opened his front door after Sherlock had rung the bell three times.

"Mr. Holmes. I had just been thinking about you," he said flatly. "Come in out of the rain."

"I see you have company?" Sherlock glanced into the sitting room, his eyes darting around the room.

"They just left to go out for a bite to eat and won't be back for a while. Would you care for some tea?"

"No, thank you." Sherlock set his gloves on the entryway table.

"I will make some for myself, if you don't mind."

Sherlock followed the older man into the kitchen and warily watched as he put the kettle on.

"Has there been any progress on the case?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied. "Quite a bit, in fact."

Wilson raised an eyebrow. "Is that a fact?"

The room, darkened by the clouds, held none of the warmth its decorator had intended. Sherlock shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets, observing Wilson's every move.

"Is that how you sedated them? A simple cup of tea with a few of your wife's sleeping pills thrown in?"

The older man eased himself onto a chair at the table.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he replied calmly.

"Come now, Mr. Wilson. I know everything." Sherlock's chuckle was low and throaty. He took out a business card, which he slid across the table.

"I saw this just now on your entryway table," he said. "The firm of Shaw, Worth, and Williams. I assume this means your wife has changed her will? She had made a small fortune as an investment banker, and I conclude she has decided very unwisely to leave the bulk of it to Theresa. After everything your stepdaughter put her through and after you have taken care of her, Leslie decided to reward Theresa."

"I love my wife," Wilson barked. "I haven't stayed with her and taken care of her because of her money."

"Oh, I believe you," Sherlock said. "But I also believe you hated your stepdaughter and the thought of her getting the money was too much."

The detective rested his hands on the back of a kitchen chair. "When Leslie was still able to get around on her own, she went looking for Theresa and traced her to Pete Marchand. Pete, being a genuinely goodhearted drug dealer, felt bad for your wife and helped her connect with her wayward child. Leslie gave Theresa a mobile and money, then came home and told you all about it."

"Leslie had no boundaries with that girl." Wilson's face reddened.

"As Leslie began to decline, you called Theresa and begged her to come home."

"You're wrong," Wilson snapped. "I didn't beg her to come home—Leslie did. And do you know what that brat said? She told her mum to never call again. It was the last straw for me."

Sherlock slowly nodded. "In that makeshift bedroom, with the love of your life fading before your eyes, you hatched a plan and at the center of it was Theresa dying at the hands of a serial killer. A prostitute drug addict killed by a serial killer? No one would care, and no one would suspect you, not when it was one in a series of murders. How am I doing so far?"

Wilson's lower lip quivered. "If you loved a woman like I loved Leslie, then you would understand the madness that comes upon you at the thought of losing her."

An odd expression flickered across Sherlock's face before he continued. "Pete had to be the first victim. You needed his mobile."

Wilson regarded Sherlock with admiration. "Very good! I told him it was Leslie's dying wish to see Theresa—and that was the truth. I convinced him to come around one evening to ease Leslie's mind, to tell her that he would keep an eye on Theresa. Once he had his tea, he was very easy to control."

"And with Leslie's wheelchair and van, I imagine it wasn't that hard to move him about."

The high-pitched whistle of the kettle rose in volume. As Wilson stood to turn it off, Sherlock took a step backwards.

"Really, Mr. Holmes? Do you think I would scald you?" Wilson looked disappointed.

"You are, after all, a murderer," Sherlock said simply.

Wilson poured his tea and sat back down.

"Once you had Pete's mobile, you texted Theresa knowing an addict will always call her dealer back," Sherlock said.

Wilson's emotions swung wildly, from anger to sadness. Wiping his eyes, he sniffled loudly.

"I sent her a text as Pete and told her to meet at his flat. I had his keys, and the code for his alarm system was on a scrap of paper in his wallet. She came straightaway. She wanted to leave once she saw me, but I convinced her to stay. By offering her more money," he said with disgust. "She was so high, she didn't even wonder how I could've gotten into Pete's home. It was chilly that night; I gave her hot tea. You know the rest."

"I assume you had hospice care workers stay with Leslie while you were dressing up and painting and transporting bodies in the van?"

"Yes."

Sherlock leaned across the table menacingly. "But Alice Mesrey. Why her?"

Wilson sighed. "I had donated books to her school. She helped me unload them in the library. She seemed like such a nice girl. But last week when I was out for a drive to clear my head, I saw Alice and a boy drinking. She was going down the wrong path, just like Theresa. She would break her mother's heart.

"So, I offered her a ride. She said she was on her way to the library. I said I had another box of books at home and would she mind coming with me back here to pick it up? She went for a walk in the garden while the hospice worker left by the front door. Then I invited Alice come in." A hint of madness flashed in his eyes. "And the truth of the matter is, I needed someone else to kill."

"Why did you leave the DVD in Pete's flat instead of with his body?"

"I thought I had brought a copy of  _Peter Pan_  when I went to dispose of his body, but I had taken another one of Barrie's books instead. Stupid mistake." Wilson grinned sheepishly. "It was easier to pop in a store, buy the DVD, and leave it in the flat."

Wilson took a long drink of his tea.

"Do you mind if I ask you a question?"

"By all means," Sherlock replied.

"How did you figure it out?"

"It was something an associate of mine said. He asked what the black bows and the cuts on the back of the hands meant. I realized that they didn't mean anything. They were window dressing as were the book titles and the costumes and giving Scotland Yard clues. You are a clever, well-read man who enjoys word play and puzzles. It amused you to make the killings as complicated as you could, but you didn't count on me working this case. You went too far. It was overkill."

"You're a very arrogant man, Mr. Holmes." Wilson's eyes darkened.

"I have good reason to be," Sherlock replied haughtily.

"One good turn deserves another." Wilson pushed a business card across to him. Sherlock's eyes flicked downward and widened. It was Molly's card.

"Go ahead. Pick it up. It's real enough."

Without breaking eye contact with Wilson, Sherlock slid the card off the table. He could still detect Molly's light, clean scent.

"I recently heard that Dr. Hooper is your girlfriend. She gave me that card when she visited me today."

"You could have got this at the hospital anytime," Sherlock said nonchalantly.

"No, sir." Wilson slowly moved his head side to side. "She left it when she was here. She had no idea I was related to Theresa McKeon. She even had some tea. See that cup on the counter? It still has her lipstick on it."

Sherlock's heart beat faster as he noted the light pink traces on the lip of the cup. Molly's shade. Putting on the poker face he had perfected by the age of nine, Sherlock stared down Wilson.

"I don't believe you. She had no reason to come here."

"I told the hospital I wanted to make a donation to cancer research in Leslie's name." Wilson stood and dumped the rest of his tea down the drain.

"Ha! Molly wouldn't have been sent out for that," Sherlock scoffed.

Wilson grinned. "Mike Stamford sent her."

Sherlock remained stone-faced, but his heart lurched.

"Molly is at work right now," he said firmly.

"Oh really?" Wilson glanced at his watch. "Let's call her office."

Sherlock remained stock still as Wilson dialed the number on the card. He switched the mobile to speaker.

"Yes, hello, may I speak with Dr. Molly Hooper, please?"

"I'm sorry, Dr. Hooper isn't in right now." A light, bubbly voice giggled. "Actually, I'm not sure where she is."

"I will rip you limb from limb," Sherlock snarled after Wilson hung up.

"Which won't help her, will it? If you cooperate, I may take you to her. But first, put your mobile on the table."

Sherlock hesitated, then complied. Wilson took it and smashed it under his boot heel.

"I was thinking of the book that would go with Molly. I decided on a movie instead— _Titanic_. Would you have figured it out, I wonder? The Unsinkable Molly Brown?" Wilson opened a kitchen drawer. "Of course, that would mean drowning your dear pathologist, and it is so cold out."

Sherlock had already calculated five ways to have Wilson pinned to the ground in ten seconds when the older man turned holding a small-caliber handgun.

"Walk slowly out the back door. You're going to drive the van."

~s~s~s~s~s~

The trip out of town took them on wet roads that curved gently between rain-soaked pastures. Wilson didn't speak unless it was to give directions. His mind racing, Sherlock memorized the turns and roads as the old, white van crept along.

"Take this first right," Wilson ordered.

Sherlock drove down the gravel lane that was dotted with puddles until it ended at a small cottage.

"Get out and walk to the back of the house."

"Do you honestly believe I would've come to see you without alerting the police?" Sherlock bluffed.

"I guess I'm going to have to take the chance that you are really that vain and arrogant," Wilson said.

Sherlock trudged through the mud and rain, staring at the darkened windows and assessing if anyone was inside. He turned the corner to see an older model Citroen. Sherlock couldn't see through its tinted windows.

"I assume this is Pete Marchand's missing car?"

"Of course."

Sherlock's anger and worry could no longer be contained.

"Where is Molly Hooper?" he shouted.

Wilson took a step back and motioned for Sherlock to approach the car.

"Open the rear door and see."

Never before had Sherlock felt such abject fear. Listening carefully for any sudden moves Wilson might make, Sherlock slowly lifted the door handle and let the door swing open. A sigh escaped his lips. She wasn't in there.

In the second Sherlock let relief flow through him, he felt a stinging blow on the back of his head; he sank to his knees. Barely conscious, he felt Wilson's hands pushing him into the back seat. The door slammed shut.

A second later, Wilson opened the driver's side door and slid behind the wheel. Almost passed out, Sherlock could still hear Wilson rapidly typing a text. Then the man burst into gales of laughter.

"Oh my, Mr. Holmes, I have to thank you," he roared. "I haven't had a good laugh in a long time. You see Molly Hooper did indeed visit me and just a little while ago. But she came because my wife died yesterday. Back at the house, when I called St. Bart's, I knew very well Dr. Hooper would still be on the road traveling back there. I never kidnapped her, Mr. Holmes."

_Stupid_ , Sherlock thought, fighting to stay awake.  _Sentiment._

He winced as the car started right up and Wilson gave it some gas. The man only drove for a minute when he stopped and opened the door with the car still running. Sherlock heard him grunting as the car slowly moved forward.

_He's pushing the car. Wake up, damn you!_

Sherlock propped up on his side, turning his head to take in every detail of the back seat, from the CDs spilled out underneath him to the empty water bottles tossed on the floor.

With a final grunt of effort, Wilson pushed the Citroen to its tipping point on the edge of an incline.

The car began to roll and picked up speed.

Sherlock pushed himself up and fumbled with the door handle. It popped open the first try.

He leapt out into the darkness.


	9. Chapter 9

_There are owes in this one._

~s~s~s~s~s~

A hot buzzing sound filled her mind, distorting everything in the lab. Molly was aware she was now sitting and that someone was taking her pulse, but all she could hear was static and her own voice shrilly insisting over and over again that this wasn't right. Sherlock didn't get captured; he came to the rescue. He didn't get outwitted; he stayed five steps ahead of the criminal.

It was a woman who finally broke through the noise in her head. She was soft but no nonsense, and Molly could make out her words.

"Dr. Hooper, look at me."

Molly blinked and stared into a pair of kohl-lined green eyes.

"Do you know where you are?"

"I'm at St. Bart's," she finally replied.

"Good. You've had a shock, but we need you to snap out of this. Right now." The woman gave Molly's arm a compassionate little squeeze.

Molly had no idea Lori Koetsier could be so grown up and serious.

The ringing in Molly's ears subsided and John Watson came into view. He looked sick with worry; Molly knew it wasn't for her. Fighting back tears, she tore her eyes away from him and watched Lestrade pace and shout orders to someone—probably Donovan—over his mobile.

_Oh Sherlock. Oh God, let him be all right!_

John must have sensed her thoughts, because he crouched to be at eyelevel with her, monitoring her reactions.

"All right, Molly?"

"I'm fine," she lied, accepting the cup of water Lori offered.

"Greg is sending Donovan to round up Sherlock's laptop. Hopefully we'll find a lead as to where he went. Greg has called Mycroft to pull strings and get us Sherlock's call records faster than normal channels can. Greg traced the text we got from the killer back to Alice's phone, which has now been turned off."

"What about Sherlock's mobile? Has someone tried to call him?" she asked anxiously.

"His mobile went dead, so we can't track it," John said. "Mycroft is coming straight away from Scotland and he's bringing his resources to bear, but from what I can tell, our only real leads at this moment are the organic matter found on Alice's coat and the results of the sedative test." He took a deep breath. "We need you, Molly."

Something wet was on her hand. A few drops of water had splashed out of the cup. Molly set it on the floor and knit her fingers together to control their trembling. She looked up at Lori, who smiled reassuringly.

_She was probably just a uni student._

That night, that terrible, wonderful night when Sherlock stood in this very lab and asked Molly to help him fake his death—and told her that she counted. Fear had coursed through her then like it did now, but it was nothing compared to the fierce love she felt for Sherlock. For him, she could compartmentalize her feelings and deal with them much later. For him she could become steel.

Molly licked her lips and stood.

"It's a common sedative, but one of its less common uses is as a sleep aid for patients who have other illnesses." She snapped an elastic band from around her wrist and pulled her flowing brown hair into a ponytail.

"Privacy laws prohibit us from getting into medical records," Lori chirped.

"We'll ask Mycroft to get on that," John said and sent a quick text.

Molly approached the microscope and hesitated. "I was . . . I was running a test on the sample when I left earlier."

"Alkalinity," Lori reminded her.

"Let's finish that up." Molly grabbed the file and began to read.

"Are you all right to do this?" John placed a hand on her shoulder.

Normally gentle brown eyes turned flinty.

"I will do whatever it takes for him. Always."

John nodded curtly. He knew exactly what she meant.

Lestrade marched up to them loudly.

"Right. Mycroft didn't have anyone tailing Sherlock this week, so that rules that out. He has CCTV of Sherlock leaving Baker Street, but the picture is blurry. He's doing everything he can to get the cab number. Molly, are you all right?"

She turned her attention to the microscope. "Will everyone please stop asking me that?"

"Here's your coffee, DI Lestrade." Lori grimaced. "It's a little cold now."

"Thank you," he said.

An hour later he was on his third cup and back on his mobile with Mycroft.

"His plane is delayed due to weather," he reported to the others. "His assistant is coordinating everything for him here in London."

Molly felt like she could hear her pulse pounding in her head as she ran her last test.

"I've got it! It's  _Phytophthora cinnamomi_ , otherwise known as root rot. It's mixed in with potassium phosphide."

"Potassium phosphide fights root rot," Lori piped up.

Molly's eyes burned from strain and unshed tears. "But what is this? It's a plant, I'm sure of it."

"May I have a go at it?" Lori changed seats with Molly. "Botany was my minor."

Pacing helped Molly hold it together, so she wore a path between Lori at the microscope and Lestrade at the other table.

_Oh God, please, please, keep him safe._

Deep in thought, Lestrade absently moved a few papers on the table and uncovered the bag of prescription bottles.

"Why do you have prescriptions for Leslie Wilson?" His voice rose in volume. "Where did you get them?"

"I told her sister I would dispose of them."

"Hold on—how do you know the Wilsons?" John was highly disturbed.

"It's a long story, but that's where I was most of the afternoon. I had to meet with them." Molly expression hardened. "Wait a minute! How do you know them?"

"Leslie Wilson was our second murder victim's mother," John said grimly.

"What? She died of cancer yesterday. There was a mix up with her autopsy," Molly haltingly tried to explain. "Oh! That's what Leslie's sister meant when she said they had lost Leslie so soon after Tessie. Tessie was Theresa."

Greg gazed knowingly at the two of them.

"What are the chances that cancer-patient Leslie was prescribed a certain sleep aid?" He emptied the bag and the bottles went rolling in all directions. "One coincidence is too many in my book!"

They quickly sorted them and read the labels.

"Got it!" John handed the bottle to Lestrade. "Prescribed by a Dr. Campanelli three months ago. It's mostly empty."

A loud squeal echoed in the room.

"It's the European yew tree!" Lori pumped her fist in the air as if she were at a Coldplay concert. "Yews can't tolerate waterlogging, and with all this rain, it stands to reason a yew would get root rot."

Molly's head jerked up. "There were yew trees in front of Dave Wilson's house."

"And in the backyard, too!" John remembered.

Molly thought back on Dave Wilson—he was just an ordinary-looking man, grief stricken and a little lost. How could he be the killer?

_You thought Moriarty was just Jim from IT_ , sneered the voice in her head.  _And look what he tried to do to Sherlock!_

"I thought the murderer was a psychopath?" Lori rushed over to them.

Lestrade's mind raced. "Because that's what he wanted us to think. In my experience most murders come down to sex, love, money, or revenge. I bet if we strip away books and costumes and black bows and all this other nonsense, we'll see Dave Wilson has one of those motives."

"That's brilliant." Lori beamed at him.

"I'll have the local boys head over there now," Lestrade said. "Um, Molly, maybe you should wait—"

She gave him a scathing look.

"You've got to be kidding me," she said. "Now let's go."

~s~s~s~s~s~

_Cold. Pain._

Forcing open his leaden eyes, Sherlock watched a roiling grey canopy tower above him. Rain pelted his face like needles of ice. Carefully turning his head from one side to the other, he tried to get his bearings. Acutely aware that he was soaking wet, he couldn't figure out why he was on his back in a thicket of bushes with his body pointed downslope. Trying to remember what had happened only made his pounding head hurt more.

In his mind's eye, fragments of memories kaleidoscoped together. He had gone to Wilson's. There had been a car and he had forced the door open as it rolled down a hill. He must have jumped out of it. Surveying the bushes surrounding him, Sherlock concluded this underbrush had broken his fall. Using his right arm, he forced down some branches and looked up the embankment. There was no sign of Wilson.

He had no idea how long he'd been unconscious, but judging by how uncontrollably he was shivering, he assumed he had been lying there for more than an hour.

_Not good, not good at all._

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut. It made no sense. Why did he get in the car? Had Molly been in the car?

_Molly._

It was the only thought that could pierce the fog of his thinking and cause him to bolt upright, oblivious to his injuries. He was instantaneously forced back down by an excruciating wave of pain that hit him full force. He passed out within seconds.

When he regained consciousness again, Sherlock tried to call out for Molly, but he had trouble getting his mouth to work.

"What happened to Molly?" His words were garbled and again he tried to move.

A ragged cry tore from his throat.

_Broken tibia._

He gingerly felt the back of his head, vaguely remembering getting hit by something.

_Concussion. Obviously._

He cautiously moved his right leg, relieved that it seemed uninjured. He tested his left arm; it was fine. He exhaled a shuddering breath through chattering teeth.

_Muddled thinking. Slow responses. Shallow breathing. Slow heart rate._

"Hypothermia," he mumbled.

His dire diagnosis didn't frighten him, nor did the knowledge that no one would be looking for him. Instead, he closed his eyes. The cold lulled him into a near sleep when a spasm from his broken leg sent a shot of pain through his body like an electrical charge and gave him a moment of cold, practical lucidity.

_You will die here if you don't do something now._

A very impersonal, unfeeling part of his mind told him to get moving. It didn't care about the pain or the cold. It only focused on survival. What had his brother once called him? "An insanely stubborn man who insists on having his own way in everything." Mycroft had said this quality would get him killed some day. Sherlock was determined to make this quality save him.

Stifling a cry, he slowly rolled onto his stomach. Using his elbows, he began to maneuver his body to point in the right direction. With every jostle and bump, the pain in his leg grew more unbearable. Slowly he pushed his way out of the brush and tried to stand on his good leg. He was partially up when the world tipped on its axis, and he crumpled to the ground in agony.

Once the pain subsided, he began to crawl using his hands to pull him and his good leg to push. It occurred to him to set definite targets to make the big picture of climbing the hill more manageable, at least mentally. He looked for landmarks to aim for and settled on a large tree, but reaching it meant going parallel with the top instead of heading straight up. But he had made up his mind and he bloody well would get over to that tree.

Water sluicing down the hill splashed into the side of his face as he painstakingly fought for handholds in the thick mud. He had no sense of time, only the singular focus of reaching the tree. When he finally touched the rough bark at its base, he laughed with joy but wasn't sure why. He lay on his back and spotted a break in the clouds. He could see stars, an endless array of lights. He felt as if he had lain there for centuries watching entire galaxies go by. Then the gap closed and the rain returned. In his muddled state, he suddenly felt very lonely.

_I don't want to die alone._

He then smiled broadly.

_Aren't you maudlin?_

Rolling on his stomach, he noticed something long and white jutting out of the ground several feet away. Curious, Sherlock crawled toward it.

_A bone? Why is someone buried here?_

Once, twice, three times his fingers brushed the sturdy-looking stalk. Convinced he could use it to pull himself further along, Sherlock's resolve won out over sound thinking. Balancing on his good knee, he lunged for it not noticing the mud beneath him was making a sickening, sucking sound. In that moment the wet earth gave up its purchase; the root fell to the side. As Sherlock frantically tried to regain his balance, he instinctively planted his left leg. For all the times he had referred to the body as merely transport for a dominant intellect, he saw now that his frail human form did matter.

He didn't even try to hold in his scream of pain.

The unstable mud slid out from under him, sending him flailing backward. End over end he tumbled, his desperate attempts to slow his fall failing. With his last coherent thought, he tore at the ground. Stunned by agonizing pain and bone-gnawing cold, he welcomed the darkness that swiftly closed in.


	10. Chapter 10

The house was lit up like a Christmas tree with a multitude of flashing police lights as Lestrade's car rolled onto the scene. He flashed his warrant card to the officer in charge.

"DI Lestrade. What have you found?"

The officer inclined her head. "Sergeant Caroline Davidson. This woman allowed us to search the home, but there's no sign of Dave Wilson or Sherlock Holmes. The suspect's van is missing. We've put out an alert on it."

Melinda Bindon stood to the side surrounded by her three sons, her hands on her hips.

"I demand to know what is going on. What is Dave suspected of?" Then she caught sight of Molly. "Dr. Hooper? Why are you here?"

Molly shivered and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

"Melinda, I don't have time to explain, but it's very important that we find Dave. Do you know where he is?" she asked anxiously.

"I don't. Like I told this lot, we went out to eat, but he didn't feel up to going with us. When we got back, he was gone and the police descended on us like a pack of wolves!" She gestured angrily at the police cars surrounding the house. "Why are you doing this to us? We are in mourning."

With an impatient grunt, John pushed passed them and rushed into the house, Molly following quickly behind.

The entryway, filled with boxes and books, was barely passable. John started up the stairs when Molly gasped.

"John!" she cried, looking at the table by the door. "These are his gloves, I'm sure of it!"

She snatched them up and held them to her nose. They ran back outside.

"These are Sherlock's!" She thrust the gloves at Lestrade.

"Well done, Molly." He turned to Melinda. "Does Dave a place he likes to go, somewhere quiet and secluded?"

"How would I know?' she snapped.

"The cottage!" Molly shouted. "Where you had Leslie's memorial service."

"Well, I suppose," she said.

"Where is it?" Lestrade demanded.

"I don't know the address," she sniffed indignantly.

"I do," piped up the youngest of her boys. "I was bored on the way out there this morning, so I mapped the drive on this app."

He held up his mobile with the route clearly marked. Lestrade took it from him.

"I'll get this back to you!" Lestrade called over his shoulder as he, Molly, and John ran for their car. "Davidson, you and another unit follow us!"

~s~s~s~s~s~

The door shook and splintered under the force of the beefy officer's shoulder.

"Gun!" Lestrade shouted, drawing his weapon as Davidson grabbed the small firearm that hung impotently from Dave Wilson's limp hand as he sat in a comfortable armchair in front of a roaring fire.

"Where is Sherlock Holmes?" Lestrade shouted. "We know you brought him here."

Wilson unemotionally watched the fire crackle on.

Lestrade continued as the officers began searching the cottage. "I've already gone through your van. There's enough evidence in there to convict you for murder without ever going to trial. So, tell me where he is."

Molly and John rushed in, searching for the missing detective with the policemen. The layout of the cottage was simple: a kitchen with a breakfast nook, a bath, and two bedrooms.

"Sherlock!" John shouted, opening every closet door.

There was no sign of him.

"Start a search outside. I want a medevac chopper in the air right now," Lestrade ordered.

Davidson hesitated. "Sir, our procedures are to wait until—"

"Do it now, sergeant!" he barked. "If you need authorization, I have clearance directly from a highly placed government official to take whatever steps I deem necessary."

"What have you done with him?" John yelled, grabbing Wilson by the lapels of his jacket.

"It's a cold one out today, isn't it?" The man sounded bored.

"You son of a . . ."

Davidson pulled John off the killer before the doctor could strike him. Molly positioned herself directly in front of the older man.

"Mr. Wilson, it's me, Molly Hooper from this afternoon? Please tell me where Sherlock is."

He looked toward her with a smile. "Hello, Dr. Hooper. So good to see you again."

Lestrade leaned in and pulled Molly to the side. "He seems to respond to you. Keep talking to him," he whispered.

She nodded imperceptibly.

"You and you, with me." Lestrade gestured to the uniformed officers. "Sergeant Davidson, stay with the suspect."

~s~s~s~s~s~

The rain was falling lightly as Lestrade and John exited the cottage.

"You go north, you south. Sherlock is a very tall man, dark curly hair, probably wearing a long coat," Lestrade instructed the policemen.

"Where do we even start?" John threw up his hands, surveying the property.

"We never found Pete Marchand's car. I'm sure Wilson hid it here. Probably didn't have time to dispose of it yet. Let's go round back."

They sloshed through the sodden grass to the rear of the cottage.

"Do you smell that?" John asked. "Is that petrol?"

Lestrade knelt and fingered the grass. "A car was parked here recently, and it had a leak."

"These tire tracks are fresh!" John pointed to marks in the mud leading away from the house.

"You're right!"

They jogged along the deep indentations a distance until they made a sharp right at a copse of trees and ended at the edge of steep slope.

"Look!" John pointed to the large pond at the bottom of the hill.

"Perfect place to ditch a car," Lestrade said.

John looked at him with a mixture of dread and anger. "And a detective."

The doctor ran pell-mell down the muddy incline to where the tracks entered the water and disappeared to the depths below.

"Sherlock!" John desperately looked one way, then the other. "Sherlock!"

"He was in that car." Lestrade's shoulders slumped, his eyes welling up. It couldn't be true. But the evidence was right in front of him.

"He could still be alive!" John insisted.

He was already knee-deep in the water by the time Lestrade reached him and wrestled him back to the bank. With an anguished cry, John staggered away shouting Sherlock's name.

Words from his childhood rushed unbidden to Lestrade's mind.

"Hail Mary, full of grace." He looked skyward. "How do I tell Molly?"

Out of the corner of his eye, something large and dark caught his attention. His eyes widened at the sight.

~s~s~s~s~s~

Molly swallowed hard.

_You can do this, Molly. Do it for Sherlock._

"Mr. Wilson, I know you loved your wife very much. I love Sherlock very much." She kept her voice even and calm as she took a step closer to him.

"Stay back, Dr. Hooper," Davidson began but Molly signaled that she was fine.

"I can't begin to tell you how much he means to me," she continued. "Please tell me where he is."

A fine sheen of perspiration dotting his forehead, Wilson stared into the lapping flames.

"You were very kind to me today. I wish I could help you. I'm sorry."

Molly bit her lip and tried a different tact.

"I had a crush on Sherlock for years. I'd get all flushed if he was around." She carefully walked in front of Wilson and sat on the hearth, her knees almost touching his. "It took us so long to get together. I don't want to lose him. I know you know what I am talking about."

"I didn't want to lose Leslie," he said flatly.

Molly willed her face to remain impassive. "Sherlock has a difficult time with his emotions. I know a lot of men are the same way, but Sherlock . . . he tries to let me know he cares, but the words don't come easily. I want to hear him say that he loves me." Her voice trembled at the end. "Don't take that away from me, Mr. Wilson."

The man slowly looked her in the eye.

"He did love you. You can have peace about that."

Taken off guard, Molly's veneer began to crack.

"Wha . . . what do you mean?"

I'm sorry, Dr. Hooper. Truly I am," he said. "Mr. Holmes was very smart, but I am much smarter. He did some dumb things tonight, all for love."

Her words tumbled out, low and angry.

"You horrible, vile little man! Tell me where he is right now!"

With an unexpectedly quick movement, he grabbed her arm in a crushing grip.

"Actually, you're the only reason that I was able to get to him at all."

~s~s~s~s~s~

"John! Over here!"

Lestrade rushed to Sherlock. Dropping to his knees, he grabbed the injured man's wrist and nearly recoiled at the feel of the ice-cold skin. He pressed deeper as John stumbled to a stop next to him.

"I can't find a pulse!" Lestrade cried.

John knelt at Sherlock's other side and reached for a carotid.

"Is he . . .?" Lestrade searched the doctor's face, an ache forming in his gut when he didn't immediately hear an answer.

After a moment, John nodded.

"There it is; it's slow, but it's there. He's hypothermic." John tore off his coat and placed it over his friend; Lestrade did the same. John's movements were careful but still held an air of urgency as he thoroughly checked him for other injuries. "He's got a nasty gash on the back of his head. Cuts and abrasions. Possible cracked ribs. Bad open tibia fracture."

"Is he going to be all right?" Lestrade asked, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's ghastly pale face.

"He will be," John said tightly.

Sherlock moaned, his head feebly moving in the mud.

"Sherlock?" John leaned in close, his nose a hair's breath from the man's face. "Sherlock!"

He rubbed hard on his friend's sternum, which elicited a weak response.

"Molly," Sherlock slurred thickly.

"Sherlock!" John tried once more to rouse his friend. "He's unresponsive. We need to get him to the hospital, but I don't know if his heart can take our carrying him."

"What does his heart have to do with it?"

"If the core temperature is too low, the heart goes into shutdown mode to preserve heat and protect the brain." John's voice was deceptively calm. "If we jostle him too much or cause him pain or distress, it could cause heart arrhythmia."

"Sir?" A uniformed officer came running down from the top of the hill, his flashlight beam floating wildly in the rain.

"Get on the horn and find out where medevac is!" Lestrade shouted. "And get Dr. Hooper down here now!"

~s~s~s~s~s~

"Let her go!"

Davidson lunged at Wilson, who abruptly released Molly as the sergeant yanked him up by the arm. With a cry, Molly jumped to her feet, clutching her wrist to her chest and watched as the woman swiftly got him into cuffs. Davidson dropped Wilson back into the chair roughly.

"Are you OK?" she asked Molly, who mutely nodded.

A deeply held anger welled up in the typically sweet pathologist.

"What do you mean I'm the reason you were able to get to him?" she demanded. "Tell me!"

"Just this morning I was cursing God for Leslie's death when you showed up at my door. It was a gift." His smile sent chills down Molly's spine. "Your business card was the key. That and a well-time phone call to your lab convinced the oh-so-mighty Mr. Holmes that you were my prisoner. He was very cooperative after that. Still arrogant but he did what I told him."

Her head spinning, Molly felt as if she were going to be sick when a policeman ran through the front door.

"Dr. Hooper! They've found him!"

~s~s~s~s~s~

Sherlock moaned again and blinked heavily, his eyes glassy.

"J-J-John?"

"Hang in there, mate." John smiled weakly.

Sherlock struggled to form words. "M-M-Molly."

"She's fine. She's on her way." John soothed him.

Sherlock didn't respond.

"John?" Lestrade began fearfully.

John desperately searched for a pulse. "It's getting weaker."

"Sherlock!" Molly's voice carried down to them.

Starting down the slope, she fell but was up again in a second, slipping her way to the bottom, the young officer at her heels. Lestrade moved so she could take his place at Sherlock's side.

"Sherlock? I'm here, I'm right here." She began to cry. "Why isn't he answering me?"

"Where's the chopper?" Lestrade demanded of the officer.

"They say they are ten minutes out," he reported.

Lestrade looked to where John had Sherlock's wrist in a death grip as if he could will a pulse into it. There was a long pause before John's voice came back thick with emotion, barely audible.

"Can you tell them to make it five?"


	11. Chapter 11

"Easy now, slowly!" John barked at the attendants as they carefully wheeled the stretcher into the hospital.

Sherlock was wrapped in multiple blankets, his shredded, wet clothes in a pile in the rescue chopper. Transporting him from the scene had taken longer than John would have liked, but he knew all the reasons why they had to move Sherlock extremely cautiously. The hospital the paramedics were in communication with hadn't wanted to start an IV on the scene—Sherlock was under too much duress and he needed warm saline, which they didn't have onboard. John understood that, too, but part of his brain had screamed in desperation for them to do something, anything to save his best friend's life.

Luckily the hospital was only a short flight away. He had been allowed to accompany Sherlock since he was a practicing physician, not that he had been much help. He had watched powerlessly as they moved Sherlock's lifeless limbs as if he were a ragdoll.

"We're set up for him in treatment one," a nurse instructed them.

John didn't ask permission—he followed the paramedics behind a partition to where a team was assembled and waiting. As soon as they gently transferred Sherlock to the gurney and recited his latest vital signs, an attending doctor took command.

"Right, start the warm saline IV and 5% dextrose. Rose, put him on humidified, warm O2. Tyrese, set up an EKG. You're in charge of monitoring his heart constantly as he warms up. I want a new set of vitals, an ABG and CBC to start. Also, get film of that leg, chest, and a full skull and spinal series. Carrie, alert the orthopedic surgeon. As soon as he stabilizes, he'll need to go to theater."

Transfixed by the personnel quickly and professionally working on Sherlock, John flashed to the many times he had done their job, saving soldiers in life-and-death emergencies in Afghanistan. Only the life in the balance now was Sherlock's, and John couldn't do a thing.

A family liaison gently took him by the elbow and guided him away. The blue curtains swished closed and he could no longer see Sherlock.

"I need to go back in!"

"Sir, you need to let the doctors do their work," she said.

"I'm a doctor," John said vacantly.

"I'll show you where you can wait." She kindly led him down the hall.

With a shuddering sigh, John stared at the ceiling of the small family waiting room. He had tried to keep Sherlock going while the chopper landed in a nearby pasture, but he knew it was Molly who kept Sherlock hanging on. She had kneeled next to him in the mud, holding his hand and whispering a continuous, calm stream of words into the detective's ear. Some of what she said had been nonsense; some of it had been about Wilson's capture; and some had been so private that John felt wrong to overhear any of it.

_Sherlock had better recover. He has no idea of how much this woman loves him._

Anger replaced helplessness as John stared at nothing.

_Why didn't you wait? Why did you go out there alone? Why didn't you call?_

Realization hit him like a splash of cold water. He slipped his mobile out of his pocket and confirmed what he already knew: It was turned off. Anger was quickly replaced with the sick feeling of guilt.

"John!"

Startled out of his thoughts, he looked over to see Molly and Lestrade, bedraggled and exhausted, rushing into the room. They had come by car. Knowing Molly's state of mind and Lestrade's propensity to speed, John wouldn't have been surprised if they had beaten the chopper there.

"How is he?" she asked, her large, brown eyes pleading.

"He's alive," John faltered. "They're warming him. He'll need an operation to fix his leg, but the priority right now is getting him stabilized."

"Is he going to make it?" Lestrade asked.

"I . . ." John tried to clear his throat, but the lump just wouldn't go away. "I honestly don't know."

Molly turned away, her slender shoulders quietly shaking. John drew her close while Lestrade stood at the window, punching one hand into the other. The helpful family liaison reappeared with some hot coffee.

"You're all soaked through and through. I'll get you clean scrubs to change into and some blankets," she offered. "A woman in some government office called to let you know that Mycroft Holmes is on his way. He'll be here shortly."

"Thank you," John said, absently stroking Molly's hair.

She pulled away and wiped her eyes awkwardly with her left hand.

"Jesus Christ, what is that?"

John reached for Molly's right arm and gingerly eased up her sleeve to reveal the ugly purple-and-black bruise he had noticed peeking out from under her cuff. She shrank back with a whimper of pain.

"He grabbed me," she said quietly. "Wilson grabbed me."

Lestrade was next to her in two steps, his expression like a darkening thundercloud.

"I'll have Davidson's head for this," he spat.

Tears streamed down Molly's face. "No, it wasn't her fault. I got too close when I was trying to get him to talk. It's my fault. It's all my fault."

"What exactly did he say to you?" Lestrade eyed her carefully.

Molly's face crumpled as she started to cry harder.

"That bastard." He clutched her to his chest. "What did he say?"

John shook his head. "Let's talk about it later. We need to get her arm x-rayed. From the swelling I'd say it's broken."

"Not until I know Sherlock is OK." Molly shook her head stubbornly.

"I'm your friend and your doctor," he said. "I can't help Sherlock right now, so please let me take care of you."

The woman— _Annie_  her nametag read—returned with an armload of blankets and scrubs.

"Is there something wrong, sir?" she asked, setting everything down on the only table in the room.

"Yes, Annie. I believe Dr. Hooper has broken her arm. It needs to be looked at immediately."

"Oh my, that must hurt terribly," she empathized as she gave Molly a once over. "If you would come with me, I'll take you to one of the doctors on duty."

Molly looked torn. "But John . . ."

"No."

"Any word, any change, anything at all, come and get me. All right?" she demanded.

"Yes," John said and motioned for her to go.

"Promise?"

"We promise," Lestrade said. "Off you go now."

Biting her lip, Molly left as Lestrade and John sank wearily into two chairs.

"What do you really think his chances are?" Lestrade asked in hushed tones.

"50-50." John dropped his head into his hands. "Oh, God. If only I had kept my mobile on this afternoon, none of this would've happened."

Lestrade let loose a stream of colorful swear words.

"How do you think I feel? It's my bloody job to catch murderers like Wilson. I completely botched this."

"No you didn't," John said emphatically. "You're the one who figured out Sherlock had been kidnapped in the first place. You're the one who put two and two together when you saw the prescription bottles. Hell, you're the one who found Sherlock down by that pond. If you hadn't, he certainly would be dead right now." He paused. "In my opinion, Greg, you're one of the best detectives I've ever seen—and I've seen the very best."

Lestrade considered his friend's words for a few minutes before he looked over at John with a small smile.

"Thanks." He stood. "I'm going to change out of these wet clothes, then I'm going to go find the chapel."

"I didn't know you were religious?" John looked at him quizzically.

Lestrade shrugged, picking up some scrubs.

"I used to believe. I think I still do. It wouldn't hurt to light a candle for Sherlock, now would it?"

~s~s~s~s~s~

Mycroft Holmes stood silently at the doorway of the small waiting room and watched John Watson doze in an uncomfortable-looking position. The elder Holmes brother had long ago learned the benefits of coming into a room quietly. Conversations could be overheard, emotions and behaviors could be observed unawares. He left theatrical entrances to his younger brother.

He gripped the crook of his umbrella's wooden handle in a stranglehold. Just as quickly as the fear had come over him, he sternly reined in his feelings, another habit he had learned years ago.

"John Watson," Mycroft said in his crisp, public voice.

John stirred. "Mycroft. Sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"Don't get up, doctor. From what I understand, you've had an exhausting day." Careful not to crease his trousers, Mycroft sat next to him.

"We haven't had any updates from the doctor." John rubbed his eyes with balled up fists.

"I know. I expected to see Dr. Hooper here. Where is she?"

"She's getting her arm x-rayed. Wilson broke it."

Mycroft's eyebrow shot up. "What a thoroughly despicable person. Tell me, why was she allowed to be that close in proximity to him?"

"We didn't know what else to do; he would only speak to her. She was trying to get him to say where Sherlock was," John explained. "I don't know the gist of their conversation, because Lestrade and I were searching outside. But at some point he grabbed her."

"I wouldn't want to be Wilson when Sherlock learns he hurt 'his pathologist,'" Mycroft said dryly.

John had to laugh. "No, I would think that of all the horrible things Wilson has done, touching Molly Hooper is the one he'll regret the most."

A few seconds later, Mycroft was again all business. "My parents are on a cruise, so I am hoping we'll learn something soon so that I can send them good news. Speaking of which, I understand congratulations are in order."

"What?" John stared blankly. "Oh, my engagement! Thank you, yes. We're very happy. Oh my God, I forgot about Mary!"

Fumbling for his mobile, he dropped it on the floor and it skidded under the table. Getting on all fours, John strained to reach it.

"I took the liberty of informing Miss Morstan of today's events," Mycroft said, slightly amused. "I deducted that you would have been to busy to ring her."

Looking up in surprise, John smiled as he finally reached the errant phone. "I think you are more sentimental than you let on."

"Sir? May I have a word?" Annie's sunny face appeared in the doorway.

"Certainly," John said as he stood.

"It's about Dr. Hooper. You were right—her arm is broken. They're splinting it now. They've given her some painkillers. Normally we'd send her straight home, but Dr. Hooper is refusing to leave. Can I rely on you to keep an eye on her?"

"Of course, absolutely," John agreed.

"Very good. I'll bring her around as soon as they're done with her."

As Annie left, the attending doctor John had seen treating Sherlock walked in.

"I'm Dr. Singh. Are you Sherlock Holmes' family?"

"I'm his brother." Mycroft stood and steeled himself for what he might hear.

"Sherlock is still very ill. We're doing everything we can to raise his core body temperature, but it's a slow process. We don't want to cause heart arrhythmia. He's responding to treatment, but we'll need to wait until he stabilizes before we can treat his other injuries."

"That was a pretty bad fracture," John noted.

"Of course we want to get him to theater as soon as possible." The dark-haired doctor pursed his lips. "There is a strong pulse in his lower left leg, so we aren't worried about him losing it. We just need to wait and see how things develop."

"Will he live?" Mycroft asked, his voice hollow.

"I'm not God," Dr. Singh said humorlessly.

"I'm aware of that, but any port in the storm. Do give it a try," Mycroft said wearily.

"If you insist," Dr. Singh said impatiently. "I would say, yes, he's going to live. But he is very sick and has a long way to go."

"May we see him?" John asked hopefully.

"Not yet. I'll let you know when you can. All right? I need to get back to him."

John scrubbed his hands over his face.

"That's good. That's all very good," he murmured. "He's making good progress. Probably in another hour or so he could be ready for surgery."

Mycroft closed his eyes, not letting his face betray what he was feeling. Swallowing hard, he offered John a thin-lipped smile.

"We'd best get some more coffee. It promises to be a long night."


	12. Chapter 12

Molly dragged the washcloth down her face, knowing she had missed some of the mud splattered at her hairline and on her neck but not really caring. She stared blankly at her reflection in the coldly sterile lavatory mirror.

She felt chilled. Her shoes were still damp; her slacks had dried stiffly. She had insisted on keeping them on, although she had relented and let the nurse put a hospital top on her before the doctor splinted her arm, which now was cocooned in a sling. It was hard to pull her hair back in a ponytail with just one hand, so she let it flow over her shoulders and down her back every which way.

She had known Wilson had broken a bone in her arm the minute he had grabbed her. She had felt rather than heard the crack, and the pain was suffocating. But she had forgotten about it the minute she learned they had found Sherlock.

Half sliding, half running down that muddy hill, Molly had only one thing on her mind: get to Sherlock. He had been so deathly pale, so lifeless under John and Greg's coats—all she could think of to do was talk to him. She babbled about Wilson being in police custody, she promised to get his coat cleaned like new, she confessed that he was her heart and soul and begged him not to leave her. When the paramedics finally took him away her arm started throbbing, but she knew it was nothing compared to the pain Sherlock had just gone through.

_What you put him through._

Molly scrubbed a little harder.

Fumbling with the plastic bag that contained her coat and blouse, she managed to open the door and nearly walked straight into the nurse who was waiting for her.

"All set then?" the young man asked.

"I need to find out how Mr. Holmes is." Molly's voice was scratchy.

"I'll take it from here, Freddie," said an older woman in a friendly way.

Molly recognized her as the family liaison that had helped earlier. Taking a few steps toward her, Molly unsteadily stumbled to her left. The woman quickly took the bag out of her hands and supported her under her good elbow.

"I understand some of these pain meds can make you a little wobbly," she said and helped Molly into a wheelchair. "My name is Annie. I'm taking you to your friends in the waiting room, all right?"

"Yes."

As they waited for the elevator, Molly closed her eyes to the harsh fluorescent lights. The events of the last few days replayed in her mind like an awful reality horror show. She had last seen Sherlock late Saturday at Scotland Yard. What had her last words to him been? She couldn't remember. All she could recall was elbowing him in an effort to get him to be polite to Greg. Would that be his last memory of her?

"Dr. Hooper?"

"Yes."

"Are you all right? You look a little green around the gills. Would you like some water?"

"Yes."

"I'll get you a cup as soon as . . . ah, here we are," Annie announced as the elevator slowed to a stop and the doors slid open.

As she was wheeled down the long hallway, Molly's stomach flipped. Surely if there had been a change in Sherlock's condition—for the better or the worse—someone would've told her.

Still wearing his sodden clothes, John was on his feet the instant she appeared in the doorway. Greg, decked out in blue scrubs, snored lightly, his long legs sprawled in front of him.

"Dr. Hooper. I'm sorry to see you under these circumstances," Mycroft said almost kindly. Or as kindly as Mycroft could sound.

"All right then, Molly?" John asked.

"Broken ulna," she said ruefully.

"The doctor says it should heal fine with a cast," Annie reported.

"Well, we'll get that taken care of after . . . after we go home." John tried to sound heartening.

What they weren't saying thundered in her ears. Her eyes darted from one to the other.

"How is he?" she asked fearfully.

"We're about to find out," John said, glancing over her shoulder.

"Mr. Holmes?"

Molly swiveled her head to see a dark-haired doctor in a lab coat directly behind her.

"Dr. Singh?" Mycroft answered.

Molly clutched the arm of her chair.

"As you know, we were waiting for Sherlock's temperature to rise before taking him in for an operation. The good news is that he is stable enough for us to do that. He is being prepped right now. Dr. Olsen will be doing the procedure."

Greg, who had awoken when the doctor began talking, was on his feet. "So he's going to make it? He's going to be fine?"

Singh hesitated. "I believe we're past the worst of the hypothermia. He does have several other injuries, including a fractured rib, but the rest of his x-rays are clear. He is still ill, but I expect him to make a full recovery."

John sighed heavily; Greg laughed. Mycroft might have smiled. The relief in the room was palpable. But Molly wouldn't allow herself to breathe until she knew all the details.

"His fracture. It was open, right? Are you doing intramedullary nailing?"

Singh smiled faintly. "Another doctor, I see. Yes, we are."

"I, however, am not a doctor," Mycroft said sharply.

"Me neither," Greg piped up. "Tell us what that means, yeah?"

"Dr. Olsen is going to insert a specially designed metal rod from the front of the knee down into the marrow canal of the tibia. The rod passes across the fracture to keep it in position. Then a special nail is screwed into the bone at both ends."

"Sounds painful," Greg grimaced.

"I take it my brother will need to do physical therapy?"

"Quite a lot of physical therapy. Recovery time can range from four to six months."

John snorted. "Oh lovely. He will be pure joy."

"Can I see him?" Molly swallowed hard.

Singh frowned. "Are you family?"

"No, but I'm . . . you see, he's my . . ." She felt the heat rise in her cheeks.

Mycroft cleared his throat in a commanding way.

"I would rather have Dr. Hooper see him at this time. I believe her presence would be a greater comfort to Sherlock more than mine would."

"He's drifting in and out and isn't too coherent," Singh warned.

"I still want to see him," Molly pressed.

"Only for a few minutes, all right?" Dr. Singh indicated for Annie to follow him with Molly.

Pushing back the curtain to the treatment area, he stood to one side as Annie wheeled Molly to where Sherlock lay silently.

"I'll be back in a few," she whispered.

Molly numbly nodded, unable to take her eyes off his face, that beautiful, perfect face, now marred by small cuts and scrapes. Her hand unconsciously brushed his forearm, which was cold as white marble. IV tubes pumped a steady stream into him.

"I'm so sorry," she said, trying to tuck the top blanket closer to him.

"Molly?" His eyelids cracked, his eyes slowly rolling before fixing on the woman next to his bed.

"I'm here." She edged as close as she could in her wheelchair and knit her fingers through his limp ones, squeezing gently.

"Wh-Where?" Sherlock licked his lips, his brow creased in confusion.

"You're in hospital but don't worry. Everything is going to be OK." She forced a reassuring smile. "I promise."

He moaned weakly. Molly slowly stood on unsteady legs and placed a gentle kiss on his lips.

"I love you. I love you. I love you," she whispered, touching her forehead to his.

Sherlock's eyes drifted closed, but he forced them back open. Two blue-green slits fixed on her.

"I . . . love . . . you."

Molly anxiously searched his face, but the detective had lost his battle with unconsciousness. Sliding back into her wheelchair, she tried to catch her breath. It was like she had had the wind knocked out of her.

"Everything is going to be OK," she repeated, even though she knew he couldn't hear her. But maybe she was saying it more for herself than for him.

~s~s~s~s~s~

The night stretched long. From her vantage point surrounded by pillows in the corner of the waiting room, Molly could observe everyone. Her meds had worn off long ago and she decided against taking more, leaving her in pain but clearheaded.

John paced in a never-ending circle, stealing a worried glance at her when he thought she wasn't looking, but she noticed every time. Mycroft read reports on his tablet, unruffled in his blue pinstripe suit. Greg would pour a cup of coffee, take a few drinks, then throw it away and get another.

John stopped by her chair, lightly resting his hand on her shoulder.

"Can I get you anything?"

She managed a smile. "No thanks."

"You haven't eaten in God knows how long."

"Neither have you," she countered.

"You also haven't taken your pill." He sounded like a parent.

"I'll take it as soon as we find out how—"

The door opened as if in response to her words and Dr. Olsen, a slender man of about thirty with a West Indies accent, came in the room.

"Everything went well. Sherlock came through fine and I don't expect any complications," he said.

Molly let the relief roll over her in waves as John leaned down to give her a hug.

"Can we see him?" Greg asked.

"He's going to be asleep for hours. In fact, I'd prefer for him to sleep as long as possible to give his body the chance to rest and recover. I suggest you go home, get some sleep, and come back tomorrow."

Molly opened her mouth to protest, but John quickly thanked the surgeon, as did Mycroft. After the doctor left, Greg ran his hand over his cropped hair and looked done in.

"Yeah, my car is out front. I think I'll be taking off now. Need to get to the office, a ton of paperwork to do. Donovan's been picking up the slack," he said. "Molly, don't be worrying anymore."

"Bye, Greg," she said with a soft smile as he gave them a quick wave of goodbye.

Mycroft adjusted the cuffs of his stiffly starched shirt. "My car is here. I can easily take you home."

"Thank you, Mycroft, but if it's all the same, I'd prefer to stay here," Molly said, drawing a disapproving look from John.

"He won't wake up for hours," he said.

"No matter. I can catch a few hours right here," she said lightly.

The two men exchanged a quick glance. John swiftly walked behind Molly's wheelchair and began pushing while Mycroft grabbed her bag and held the door open.

"Hey now! Stop!" she cried.

"You're under doctor's orders—my orders—to take your pain pill and go to bed," John said as they exited the hospital.

"You are further under orders from your government to wait at your flat until my car is sent to bring you back here at a more decent hour," Mycroft said in a tone that would brook no disagreement. "I will ring you to let you know when it is coming."

"But . . . but I want to be there when he wakes," she protested plaintively, knowing this was one argument she wouldn't win.

"You'll be at his side for the next few months, dealing with his temper tantrums and foul mood," Mycroft said sardonically. "I think you should get some sleep while you can."

~s~s~s~s~s~

Sherlock lay awake a full hour before he opened his eyes. He wanted to collect as much data about his surroundings and what may have happened to put him in this state before having to speak to anyone. First, he inhaled; not deeply enough to attract attention, but a slow breath in that told him he was in a hospital. That conclusion was confirmed by the steady musical beeps of monitors he heard close by and in the distance.

Next, he assessed his injuries. Obviously his leg was broken. He felt as trussed up as a Christmas goose and equally as unable to move. A slight pain on his left side indicated a fractured rib; his pounding headache meant he had been under general anesthesia and that he didn't have a skull fracture. He also felt cold in a way that was difficult to understand. It was as if he had ice in the core of his being.

_Mycroft always said I have ice in my veins._

His memories were sketchy at best, so he listened intently as two nurses carried on a full conversation in front of him about the local A&E gossip.

"Did you know this patient stopped the Black Bow Killer?" one of them said, adjusting Sherlock's IVs.

"Did he now? A serial killer so close, just the next town over." The second woman clicked her tongue in disapproval. Sherlock heard the scratch of a pen as she jotted something onto his chart.

"And he was a crazy devil. Just look at what he did to all those poor people! And here he tried to drown Mr. Holmes in a car he pushed into a lake," said the first woman.

_So that did happen. I was right,_  Sherlock thought smugly.  _There was an old car and a pond and I jumped out._

"Freddie told me the killer attacked that poor woman who was here earlier and nearly snapped her arm in half," her companion said.

Sherlock's ears perked up at this detail.

"Oh my, Rosie, is that so?"

"Freddie was helping when she got x-rays, wasn't he? He heard her tell her story to the doctor on duty. Put on a brave face through it all. She was in shock, he said. He said she kept asking about Mr. Holmes here. Didn't care nothing for her poor arm."

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. "What happened to Molly Hooper's arm? Where is she?"

The second woman gasped loudly. "Now sir, we can't be trying to sit up. We just had major surgery."

"You had nothing. I had surgery. I am in hospital. And I. Want. My. Pathologist!"

"Calm down, sir, lay back down," the first nurse said, checking his chart. "Rosie, send for Dr. Olsen. And call his next of kin, Mycroft Holmes."

"No, no, no! I don't want him." Sherlock's voice was hoarse but still carried loudly. "Get me Molly Hooper!"


	13. Chapter 13

Molly raced down the crowded hallway, struggling to shrug her large, striped bag back onto her shoulder.

"Sorry," she squeaked as she rounded a corner, barely avoiding an orderly wheeling a gurney.

The persistent ringing of her mobile had woken her from a deep, drug-induced sleep that left her with a raging headache. Hazy from painkillers, she felt tired and fuzzy as she tried to piece together what had happened the night before, but it was Mycroft's dry voice that brought everything back instantly.

"I apologize, Dr. Hooper. I should have given you more warning, but my car is waiting outside your building."

"What?" she gasped, jumping out of bed. "Is something wrong? Is Sherlock worse?"

"No, he is better. That is the problem."

Biting her lip to keep from saying something she might regret, Molly rolled her eyes heavenward. The Holmes brothers certainly had a frustrating flare for the dramatic. "Please just tell me."

"He is going to be fine, the doctors have explained to me. But he is causing a loud disturbance on the ward. No matter how much John reassures him that you are well, he insists on seeing you.  _Now._  I plan to arrive at the hospital in a few hours, but could you—"

Whatever else Mycroft said became static as she grinned happily.

_Sherlock is going to be fine._

"I'll throw on some clothes and be down in five."

Picking up her pace, Molly was practically jogging when she heard John's raised voice drifting down the hall.

"Will you lie back down, you bloody git!"

"If it were Mary, you wouldn't be willing to lie around in hospital!" argued Sherlock, supercilious and angry.

Breaking out into a smile, Molly strode into the first room on her left and was surprised to see Sherlock weakly trying to sit up with John holding him in place with just one hand.

"Sherlock Holmes! Stop giving everyone a hard time!" she commanded.

Seeing her in the doorway, Sherlock eased back onto the pillows, relief and affection flooding his ocean-blue eyes.

"At last, Molly Hooper," he said quietly.

John, wearing fresh clothes but still looking disheveled, made sure his best friend's IVs were intact before shoving his hands into his pockets.

"I'm going to get some tea and let Greg know you're making a remarkable recovery," he said brusquely to Sherlock before giving Molly a conspiratorial wink.

After the door slowly clicked shut behind him, Molly dropped her bag and rushed to Sherlock. Without a word, he pulled her down to him, his lips crashing on to hers with an intensity she hadn't felt before.

"You're really all right?" she murmured between his frantic kisses.

He grunted in answer, not pausing to catch his breath before snogging her silly. Finally breaking away, he gently touched her right arm, which was cradled securely in a blue sling. "And you?"

Breathless, she looked at him dubiously. "You can't tell me you don't already know I have a broken ulna."

He clenched his fist until the knuckles went white.

"I will kill Wilson," he seethed.

Molly had seen this possessive fury only a few times before. Calmly she stroked his hand until it gradually relaxed, then she brought it to her lips and kissed it.

"He nearly killed you," she reminded him. "I'd say that's a little more serious."

"But he hurt you. No one hurts you," he said dangerously.

"I'm fine. Don't worry." Molly cupped his cheek tenderly. "How are you feeling today?"

Sherlock stared down at his badly broken leg.

"Very tired. And this undoubtedly will take a while." He sighed like a martyr. "I am not a patient man."

"Yeah, I know. But we'll get through it together. We'll watch crap telly and get curry takeaway and have a grand time of it," she teased, but Sherlock remained pensive.

"I don't remember much of last night. Bits and pieces. I thought you were in danger and I had to find you." He curled his lip in disdain. "Wilson lied."

Drawing back, Molly felt ill with shame. In her haste and the confusion of the morning, she had forgotten why Sherlock had ended up on that muddy hillside.

_All your fault._

Whatever painkiller Sherlock was on, it hadn't affected his powers of observation.

"Molly? What is it?"

With a light toss of her head, she gave him a brave face.

"You were so ill. I was very frightened."

"You're a rubbish liar." He studied her intently.

"It's true! I was frightened," she protested.

"There's more. Tell me," he commanded imperiously.

"No, that's it. Really."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Your voice just jumped an octave, a sure sign that you aren't telling the truth."

With tears threatening, Molly knew she couldn't fool him. She focused on smoothing the thin hospital blanket.

"My business card. I left it at Wilson's. It's what he used to fool you, I know . . ." Her trembling voice trailed off.

"So you think that somehow this is your fault?" Sherlock's brow furrowed in disbelief. "You are far too intelligent of a woman to let a misplaced sense of guilt deceive you into believing that. You're letting emotion overrule your logic."

"And that's what you did," she cried, standing up and walking to the door. "Your feelings for me put you in danger. I can't bear that, Sherlock, I really can't."

"Molly, come back."

"No," she sobbed and reached for the door handle.

His rich, baritone voice halted her in her tracks.

"I was cold and I knew I was dying, but your voice was my lifeline. Molly Hooper, you still are my true north and always will be."

"Oh Sherlock." Tears spilling over, Molly turned and slumped back against the door.

"Come here or I'll get up," he threatened.

She couldn't resist him. Molly walked to Sherlock and lightly sat at the edge of the bed.

"I've had no use for sentiment in my life, but I've come to understand the value of friendship and of our . . . understanding." He paused and then said purposefully, "And I remember."

"What do you remember?" Half hopeful, half fearful, Molly slowly looked him in the eye.

"What I said to you before they took me to surgery. I remember." Sherlock gave her one of his rare, pure smiles that melted away her fears and doubts.

Something that felt like joy welled up in her heart and Molly leaned in to place a tender kiss on his lips.

"Sherlock, I love you, too."

~s~s~s~s~s~

The End

 **Author's Note:**  Thank you to everyone who has read this story. Sherlock will be facing an intense time of recovery and the boredom it brings trapped in his rooms at Baker Street, all with painkillers at the tip of his fingers, and what happens is "a bit not good," as John would say. Find out what happens in  _And the Stars Wept into the Night_ , coming soon!


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